New is a word for fools in towns who think Style upon style in dress and thought at last Must get somewhere.

Such heaps of broken glass to sweep away / You'd think the inner dome of heaven had fallen.

Some say the world will end in fire, Some say in ice. From what I've tasted of desire, I hold with those who favor fire. But if it had to perish twice I think I know enough of hate To say that for destruction ice Is also great And would suffice.

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.

The tree the tempest with a crash of wood Throws down in front of us is not to bar Our passage to our journey's end for good, But just to ask us who we think we are....

The sister's face Fell all in wrinkles of responsibility. She wanted to do right. She'd have to think.

When I see birches bend to left and right... I like to think some boy's been swinging them.