Two Roads Diverged In A Wood And

Nothing Gold Can Stay.

I Could Give All To Time Except--except What I Myself Have Held.

Possessing What We Still Were Unpossessed By, Possessed By What We Now No More Possessed.

Writing A Poem Is Discovering.

To Time It Never Seems That He Is Brave To Set Himself Against The Peaks Of Snow To Lay Them Level With The Running Wave, Nor Is He Overjoyed When They Lie Low, But Only Grave, Contemplative And Grave.