The rose is a rose,And was always a rose.But the theory now goesThat the apple’s a rose,And the pear is, and so’sThe plum, I suppose.The dear only knowsWhat will next prove a rose.You, of course, are a rose –But were always a rose.
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,And sorry I could not travel bothAnd be one traveler, long I stoodAnd looked down one as far as I couldTo where it bent in the undergrowth; Then took the other, as just as fair,And having perhaps the better claimBecause it was grassy and wanted wear,Though as for that
Whose woods these are I think I know.His house is in the village, though;He will not see me stopping hereTo watch his woods fill up with snow. My little horse must think it queerTo stop without a farmhouse nearBetween the woods and frozen lakeThe darkest evening of the year. He gives his harness bells a
Some say the world will end in fire,Some say in ice.From what I’ve tasted of desireI hold with those who favor fire.But if it had to perish twice,I think I know enough of hateTo say that for destruction iceIs also greatAnd would suffice.
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 dayNothing gold can stay.
I have been one acquainted with the night.I have walked out in rain – and back in rain.I have outwalked the furthest city light. I have looked down the saddest city lane.I have passed by the watchman on his beatAnd dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain. I have stood still and stopped the sound of
When I go up through the mowing field,The headless aftermath,Smooth-laid like thatch with the heavy dew,Half closes the garden path. And when I come to the garden ground,The whir of sober birdsUp from the tangle of withered weedsIs sadder than any words A tree beside the wall stands bare,But a leaf that lingered brown,Disturbed, I
A voice said, Look me in the starsAnd tell me truly, men of earth,If all the soul-and-body scarsWere not too much to pay for birth.
I have wished a bird would fly away,And not sing by my house all day; Have clapped my hands at him from the doorWhen it seemed as if I could bear no more. The fault must partly have been in me.The bird was not to blame for his key. And of course there must be
He is that fallen lance that lies as hurled,That lies unlifted now, come dew, come rust,But still lies pointed as it plowed the dust.If we who sight along it round the world,See nothing worthy to have been its mark,It is because like men we look too near,Forgetting that as fitted to the sphere,Our missiles always