Two Roads Diverged In A Wood And

Let Him That Is Without Stone Among You Cast The First Thing He Can Lay His Hands On.

It Should Be Of The Pleasure Of A Poem Itself To Tell How It Can. The Figure A Poem Makes. It Begins In Delight And Ends In Wisdom. The Figure Is The Same For Love.

Oh, Give Us Pleasure In The Orch-ard White, Like Nothing Else By Day, Like Ghosts By Night.

Let's Get My Incantation Right: "i Wish I May, I Wish I Might" Give Earth Another Satellite.

When The Spent Sun Throws Up Its Rays On Cloud And Goes Down Burning Into The Gulf Below, No Voice In Nature Is Heard To Cry Aloud At What Has Happened. Birds, At Least Must Know It Is The Change To Darkness In The Sky. Murmuring Something Quiet In Her Breast, One Bird Begins To Close A Faded Eye; Or Overtaken Too Far From His Nest, Hurrying Low Above The Grove, Some Waif Swoops Just In Time To His Remembered Tree. At Most He Thinks Or Twitters Softly, 'safe! Now Let The Night Be Dark For All Of Me. Let The Night Be Too Dark For Me To See Into The Future. Let What Will Be, Be.