"Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening" by Robert Frost

I’ve taken to putting good poems on this page when I find them, or when they’re revealed to me, as this one was.

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening

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.

My little horse must think it queer,
To stop without a farmhouse near,
Between the woods and frozen lake,
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake,
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep,
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

                 -- Robert Frost

                              (courtesy of Tristan)

Lucius and Ivy

The quiet young man stands in his place,
       Tending to his work, silent;
              Pulling his weight
       In the peaceful, tiny village.

He tends to his chores
       Never forgetting a step
              And never failing in doing
                     The best job that he can,
       Yet he cannot help but think of something else…
              His every thought belonging to someone else.

But he would never tell her,
       Though he sees her every day
Though she speaks to him
       As if the whole world were theirs.

Yet as he does his work --
       Always faithful…
              Never failing…
       -- He thinks of her,
              Worries that she never feel pain,
       And longs to hold her,
                     Or just to see her --
                            To be near her.

His heart’s envy
       -- Beautiful, though unseeing
              -- More beautiful still for it,
                     And most delicate of all
       -- Is never but a short walk away,
              In the peaceful, tiny village.
                     Yet he is afraid to seek her out.

              What would he say?
                            What could he do?

Though he rarely says anything,
              Speaking only as a tool for communication,
       And is known for it.

Yet his unseeing beloved
       Is known for the kindness
              In her forthright speech
       -- always saying what is on her mind
              and always saying what she means.
Long since her glorious vision failed,
       She learned to hear
              The truth in others’ voices
       And cares only to share the truth in her own.

And the kindness
       -- Oh, the kindness
              he can never forget! --
       rings always in his heart,
              freeing him from his pains,
                     though pouring on him more still.

Yet he knows he could never tell her,
       But does not see
              That she hears it in his silence,
       And loves him for it.
              Yet she is kind,
                     And patiently awaits that day
                            In which he holds back no more
              And says what his tormented heart
                            Has been waiting to say for so long.

When she thinks of that day --
       While he performs his duties
              And tends to his chores,
       Unable to free his mind --
                     She is happy
                            And she smiles.

"No end will he fret, no worry entertain..."

It is a proper love that makes way
        For the serenity of another,
     And it is but a selfish love that does not.

A proper love understands, accepts,
       And needs only to see its other content.
   It is a love that will take its step back
           And graciously maintain the love of a friend.

A friend’s love has he found many
      And with overwhelming joy
            Has it made his life thus far full;
   That life can be lived with passion,
                And Patience give its peace.

So go then, and find love;
        Find solitude…
                Find what makes your heart happy.
          For it will make this one happy:
                    That which makes a friend’s turmoil but tranquil.

Perhaps he will find a better time, yet to come,
    Or perhaps time will find her living life happily with another,
        And perhaps he will happily find a life full
             Of the fondness of impassioned friends.
   No end will he fret, no worry entertain,
          But to the hopeful, undeveloped future he consents gladly.
       There is a happiness in life
                 When spent amongst the happiness of others.