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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 |
Some say the world will end in fire |
Some say in ice |
From what I’ve tasted of desire |
I hold with those who favor fire |
But if it had to perish twice |
I think I know enough of hate |
To say that for destruction ice |
Is also great |
And would suffice |
Before man came to blow it right |
The wind once blew itself untaught |
And did its loudest day and night |
In any rough place where it caught |
Man came to tell it what was wrong |
It hadn’t found the place to blow |
It blew too hard the aim was song |
And listen how it ought to go |
He took a little in his mouth |
And held it long enough for north |
To be converted into south |
And then by measure blew it forth |
By measure It was word and note |
The wind the wind had meant to be |
A little through the lips and throat |
The aim was song the wind could see |
The house had gone to bring again |
To the midnight sky a sunset glow |
Now the chimney was all of the house that stood |
Like a pistil after the petals go |
The barn opposed across the way |
That would have joined the house in flame |
Had it been the will of the wind was left |
To bear forsaken the place’s name |
No more it opened with all one end |
For teams that came by the stony road |
To drum on the floor with scurrying hoofs |
And brush the mow with the summer load |
The birds that came to it through the air |
At broken windows flew out and in |
Their murmur more like the sigh we sigh |
From too much dwelling on what has been |
Yet for them the lilac renewed its leaf |
And the aged elm though touched with fire |
And the dry pump flung up an awkward arm |
And the fence post carried a strand of wire |
For them there was really nothing sad |
But though they rejoiced in the nest they kept |
One had to be versed in country things |
Not to believe the phoebes wept |
It was long I lay |
Awake that night |
Wishing the tower |
Would name the hour |
And tell me whether |
To call it day |
Though not yet light |
And give up sleep |
The snow fell deep |
With the hiss of spray |
Two winds would meet |
One down one street |
One down another |
And fight in a smother |
Of dust and feather |
I could not say |
But feared the cold |
Had checked the pace |
Of the tower clock |
By tying together |
Its hands of gold |
Before its face |
Then came one knock |
A note unruffled |
Of earthly weather |
Though strange and muffled |
The tower said One |
And then a steeple |
They spoke to themselves |
And such few people |
As winds might rouse |
From sleeping warm |
But not unhouse |
They left the storm |
That struck en masse |
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