Nature’s first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf’s a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf,
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day
Nothing gold can stay.

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village, though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound’s the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

A sower
     A seed
A root
     Of the tree
A forest is the poet

A harvest
     A trove
A cherry
     Of the grove
Sweetness is the poet

A feather
     A wing
A flight
     Of the spring
A sparrow is the poet

A swarm
     A bee
A buzz
     In the tree
A sting is the poet

A puzzle
     A haze
A fog
     In the maze
A mystery is the poet