Something there is that doesn't love a wall, and wants it down.
The line-storm clouds fly tattered and swift, The road is forlorn all day, Where a myriad snowy quartz stones lift, And the hoof-prints vanish away. The roadside flowers, too wet for the bee, Expend their bloom in vain. Come over the hills and far with me, And be my love in the rain.
There are few sorrows, however poignant, in which a good income is of no avail.
A breeze discovered my open book And began to flutter the leaves to look
Only God and I knew what I meant when I wrote it, now only God knows
Two roads diverged in a wood and I - I took the one less traveled by, and that has made all the difference.