nga Robert Frost 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 [...]

3 Komente

Love Robert Frost and love this poem. Se c'ka dicka misterioze, te erret, por edhe piktoreske dhe terheqese ne te njejten kohe ne keto vargje te tij shume te famshme, edhe perseritja e rreshtit te fundit sikur te tregon qe 'folesi' nuk eshte tamam zgjuar. Kjo verteton tamam ate qe Frost nenkupton kur thote 'Literature begins with geography'. Faleminderit per prurjen! Can't have enough of Frost! (no pun intended)

Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I've tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To say that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.


By Robert Frost
How countlessly they congregate
O'er our tumultuous snow,
Which flows in shapes as tall as trees
When wintry winds do blow!--
As if with keenness for our fate,
Our faltering few steps on
To white rest, and a place of rest
Invisible at dawn,--
And yet with neither love nor hate,
Those stars like some snow-white
Minerva's snow-white marble eyes
Without the gift of sight. 

A Question

By Robert Frost

A voice said, look me in the stars

And tell me truly, men of earth,

If all the soul-and-body scars

Were not too much to pay for birth

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