That time’s lost now, when a stone could hurt,
when a feather missed its wing,
when sky kissed clouds and grass kissed dirt
and nothing thought itself just a thing.
Others taunt me with having knelt at well-curbs
Always wrong to the light, so never seeing
Deeper down in the well…
I count our strength,
Two and a child,
Those of us not asleep subdued to mark
How the cold creeps as the fire dies at length…
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.
But after a few minutes
they become bold and
like dark thoughts
When Thomas and Frost met in London in 1913, neither had yet made his name as a poet. They became close, and each was vital to the other’s success. But then Frost wrote ‘The Road Not Taken’, which brought Thomas to an irreversible decision.
Rain, midnight rain, nothing but the wild rain
On this bleak hut, and solitude, and me
The buzz-saw snarled and rattled in the yard
And made dust and dropped stove-length sticks of wood,
Sweet-scented stuff when the breeze drew across it.
Why do we wish to bear
Forever the noise of these
More than another noise
So close to our dwelling place?
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