Over on Tomato Soup Cake, Diane's memorable blog, http://tomatosoupcake.blogspot.com/
there was a little fragment of this poem, written as "graffiti" on a downtown wall. I thought it deserved remembering again in full . . . Those of you who visit regularly here, will know of my interest in the Georgian poets who settled for an interlude in the hot summer before WWI, in the villages around Dymock.
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's 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.
