Whose Woods These Are

A poem for Robert Frost

These woods are mine. I think I know

the path beneath the drifts of snow

because my cozy house sits near;

the land is someone else’s though.

They do not see me walking here

on every morning of the year.

My little dog, he doesn’t fail,

with snout to earth and listening ear,

to lead the way along the trail

between the hill and hidden vale.

We do not make a sound or peep

as I meander on his tail

and ponder, as I climb the steep,

the secrets of these woods so deep,

though they were never mine to keep,

though they were never mine to keep.

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