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.

BY WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS

Why should I blame her that she filled my days 

With misery, or that she would of late 

Have taught to ignorant men most violent ways, 

Or hurled the little streets upon the great, 

Had they but courage equal to desire? 

What could have made her peaceful with a mind 

That nobleness made simple as a fire, 

With beauty like a tightened bow, a kind 

That is not natural in an age like this, 

Being high and solitary and most stern? 

Why, what could she have done, being what she is? 

Was there another Troy for her to burn?

Affectionate, yearning