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

The True Beauty

He that loves a rosy cheek

    Or a coral lip admires,

Or from star-like eyes doth seek

    Fuel to maintain his fires;

As old Time makes these decay,                    

    So his flames must waste away.

But a smooth and steadfast mind,  

   Gentle thoughts, and calm desires,

Hearts with equal love combined,

   Kindle never-dying fires :

Where these are not, I despise

   Lovely cheeks or lips or eyes.

                                               By- Thomas carew

Character Of Happy Life

How happy is he born or taught

  That serveth not another's will;

Whose armour is his honest thought,

  And simple truth his utmost skill!

Whose passions not his masters are,

  Whose soul is still prepared for death;

Untied unto the world with care

  Of princely love or vulgar breath;

How happy is he born or taught

  That serveth not another's will;

Whose armour is his honest thought,

  And simple truth his utmost skill!

Who hath his life from rumors freed,

 Whose conscience is his strong retreat;

Whose state can neither flatterers feed,

   Nor ruin make oppressors great;

Who envies none whom chance doth raise

  Nor vice; who never understood

How deepest wounds are given with praise;

    Nor rules of state, but rules of good;

Who god doth late and early pray

  More of his grace than gifts to lend;

Who entertains the harmless day

  With a well-chosen book or friend;

This man is free from servile bands

 Of hope to rise, or fear to fall;

Lord of himself, though not of lands;

And having nothing, he hath all.

                                                        By- SIR HENRY WOTTON