Best of all he loved the fall.
The leaves yellow on the cottonwoods.
Leaves floating on the trout streams above the hills.
The high blue windless skies.
Now he will be part of them forever.
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
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.
— ROBERT FROST
In spring of youth it was my lot To haunt of the wide world a spot The which I could not love the less-- So lovely was the loneliness Of a wild lake, with black rock bound, And the tall pines that towered around. But when the Night had thrown her pall Upon that spot, as upon all, And the mystic wind went by Murmuring in melody-- Then--ah then I would awake To the terror of the lone lake. Yet that terror was not fright, But a tremulous delight-- A feeling not the jewelled mine Could teach or bribe me to define-- Nor Love--although the Love were thine. Death was in that poisonous wave, And in its gulf a fitting grave For him who thence could solace bring To his lone imagining-- Whose solitary soul could make An Eden of that dim lake.
— Edgar Allan Poe
Passeth the moon with her sickle of light,
Slowly, slowly fadeth she,
Weary of reaping the barren night
And the desolate shuddering sea.
— Yeats, The Island of Statues
“It is the story of the Common Man, of the ordinary men and women who in their countless thousands have trudged through life and then departed from it, leaving little visible trace.”
— Rowland Parker, from “The Common Stream”