Thursday, 25 May 2017

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 harshness bells a shake
   To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound is 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.

On His Blindness

When I consider how my light is spent
   Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide,
And that one talent, which is death to hide, 
   Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent
To serve therewith my Maker, and present
   My true account, least he, returning chide.

Doth God exact day-labour, light denied?
   I fondly ask; but patience, to prevent
That murmur, soon replies, God doth not need
   Either man's work, or his own gifts, who best
Bear His mild yoke, they serve Him best;

His state
   Is kingly. Thusands at his bidding speed,
And posto'er land and ocean  without rest:

   They also serve who only stad and waite