Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening by Robert Frost
Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village, though;
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Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village, though;
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LET us twain walk aside from the rest;
Now we are together privately, do you discard ceremony,
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Let America be America again.
Let it be the dream it used to be.
Let it be the pioneer on the plain
Seeking a home where he himself is free.
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You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may trod me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I’ll rise.
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I can write no stately proem
As a prelude to my lay;
From a poet to a poem
I would dare to say.
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I went down to the river,
I set down on the bank.
I tried to think but couldn’t,
So I jumped in and sank.
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There is another sky,
Ever serene and fair,
And there is another sunshine,
Though it be darkness there;
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Take this kiss upon the brow!
And, in parting from you now,
Thus much let me avow–
You are not wrong, who deem
That my days have been a dream;
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There is a place where the sidewalk ends
And before the street begins,
And there the grass grows soft and white,
And there the sun burns crimson bright,
And there the moon-bird rests from his flight
To cool in the peppermint wind.
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Pretty women wonder where my secret lies.
I’m not cute or built to suit a fashion model’s size
But when I start to tell them,
They think I’m telling lies.
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