46: The Poetry of Robert Frost, 1969, by Robert Frost (1874–1963)
His roads diverged. His horses thought
It was a little queer
To stop out there—the darkest night—
Without a farmhouse near.
He wrote about both ice and fire—
Of hired men dying, old.
Of witches and of men who knew
Varieties of cold.
I’ve read his verse since I was young—
I’ve memorized a lot.
I mourned back then, in ’63,
When he left Camelot.
I taught his work for many years—
Had students memorize.
(I don’t regret my doing so—
Is that a big surprise?)
And in my lofty pantheon
Of poets I adore,
Old Frost is near the top. Oh, Death
Denies when we need more!
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