The woods are lovely, dark, and deep but I have promises to keep...
Ants are a curious race
I dwell with a strangely aching heart In that vanished abode there far apart
The figure a poem makes. It begins in delight and ends in wisdom.
Something there is that doesn't love a wall, and wants it down.
I turned to speak to God About the world's despair But to make bad matters worse I found God wasn't there.