A winter garden in an alder swamp,
Where conies now come out to sun a
As near a paradise as it can be
And not melt snow or start a dorma
It lifts existence on a plane of s

Two roads diverged in a yellow woo
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I c
To where it bent in the undergrowt

Pan came out of the woods one day,

The people along the sand
All turn and look one way.
They turn their back on the land.
They look at the sea all day.
As long as it takes to pass

An ant on the tablecloth
Ran into a dormant moth
Of many times his size.
He showed not the least surprise.
His business wasn’t with such.

He is that fallen lance that lies
That lies unlifted now, come dew,
But still lies pointed as it ploug
If we who sight along it round the
See nothing worthy to have been it

There was never a sound beside the
And that was my long scythe whispe
What was it it whispered? I knew
Perhaps it was something about the
Something, perhaps, about the lack

The buzz-saw snarled and rattled i
And made dust and dropped stove-le
Sweet-scented stuff when the breez
And from there those that lifted e
Five mountain ranges one behind th

A house that lacks, seemingly, mis
With doors that none but the wind
Its floor all littered with glass
It stands in a garden of old-fashi
I pass by that way in the gloaming

A saturated meadow,
Sun—shaped and jewel—small,
A circle scarcely wider
Than the trees around were tall;
Where winds were quite excluded,