Whose Woods These Are I Think I

Nature's Never Quite Sure She Hasn't Erred In Her Vague Design.

When A Friend Calls To Me From The Road And Slows His Horse To A Meaning Walk, I Don't Stand Still And Look Around On All The Hills I Haven't Hoed, And Shout From Where I Am, What Is It? No, Not As There Is A Time To Talk. I Thrust My Hoe In The Mellow Ground, Blade-end Up And Five Feet Tall, And Plod: I Go Up To The Stone Wall For A Friendly Visit.

The Only Certain Freedom's In Departure.

One Could Do Worse Than Be A Swinger Of Birches.

I Think I Know Enough Of Hate To Say That For Destruction Ice Is Also Great And Would Suffice.