The woods are lovely, dark, and deep but I have promises to keep...
The best way out is always through.
My sorrow, when she's here with me, thinks these dark days of autumn rain are beautiful as days can be; she loves the bare, the withered tree; she walks the sodden pasture lane.
I would not come in. I meant not even if asked, And I hadn't been.
Space ails us moderns: we are sick with space.
All those who try to go it sole alone, Too proud to be beholden for relief, Are absolutely sure to come to grief.