it breaks my heart to read
your broken poetry
the words you write they bleed
with sentimentality

sometimes you confuse me
with your duality
because you sing with glee
but write with agony

i know you cannot forget
for you love with intensity
yet remember i'll be here
to peruse your heart's ambiguity

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.