Sopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening

ROBERT FROST

Whose woods these are I think I know.

Hs house is in the village though;

He will not see me stopping here

To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little house must think it queer

To stop without a farmhouse near

Between the woods and frozen lake

The darkest evening of the year.

He gives her 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.

Reveille | A. E. HOUSMAN

Wake : the silver dusk returning

Up the beach of darkness brims,

And the ship of sunrise burning

Strands upon the eastern rims.

Wake : the vaulted shadow shatters,

Trampled to vaulted shadow shatters,

And the tent of night in tatters

Straws the sky-pavilioned.

Up, lad up, ‘tis late for lying:

Hear the drums of meaning play;

Hark, the empty highway crying

“who’ll beyond the hills away?”

Towns and countries woo together,

Forelands beacon, belfries call;

Never lad that trod on leather

Lived to feast his heart with all.

Up, lad: thews that lie and cumber

Sunlit pallets never thrive;

Morns abed and the daylight slumber

Were not meant for man a live

Clay lies still, but blood’s a rover;

Breath’s a ware that will not keep.

Up, lad: when the journey’s over

There’ll be time enough to sleep.