Stopping by Woods on a Snowy EveningIt rhymes like this:
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.
AI'm not a poet, but here's what I wrote.
For the Love of BooksI had forgotten this until last night, when I ran across the page I had printed out, showing what I posted on this blog.
A book arrived in Monday’s mail;
It’s still a manuscript, this tale,
Which comes to me from friend, not foe.
She did not ask me to curtail
My thinking pow’r nor wit, although
I don’t think she’ll be all aglow
To hear the things I must disclose
About the lacks that we both know
It has. Ah, yes, I must compose
With care — or else our friendship goes.
I cannot simply hem and haw.
"Go burn this thing’s what I propose
Because it has a tragic flaw:
It’s made of nothing more than straw.
A publisher would just guffaw.
Yes, publishers would all guffaw."