Whose woods these were, I think I know,
their House is down beneath me, though–
and yet, they see me stopping here
to watch the streets fill up with snow.
They know, and do not think it queer
I stop without a forest near
between the street and frozen lake
the darkest evening of this year.
They turn, I feel their cold bones shake;
they whisper of the old mistake;
the only other sound’s the sweep
of easy wind and downy flake.
The ground’s alive and dark and deep
and there were promises to keep
but will we learn before we sleep?
Oh, will we learn before we sleep?
With apologies. . .