Thousand Books by Bill Yarrow

I gave away 1000 books.  Books I hunted.
Books I savored.  Books I cared for.
Books I marked.  Books I taught.
Books I browsed.  Books I amassed.
Books others gave me.  Books others
sold or abandoned.  Books I kept.

I stuffed them in collection bins,
filled discard shelves, solicited readers,
advertised them, offered them,
boxed them, marked them,
hawked them, mailed them,
promised them, carried them,
scattered them, delivered them.

Once I thought I was made of books.

----------

[first read on Thunderclap Press; available for free online]

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening by 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 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.


----------
[first read on Poetry Foundation; available for free online]

Acquainted with the Night by Robert Frost

I have been one acquainted with the night.
I have walked out in rain—and back in rain.
I have outwalked the furthest city light.

I have looked down the saddest city lane.
I have passed by the watchman on his beat
And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain.

I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet
When far away an interrupted cry
Came over houses from another street,

But not to call me back or say good-bye;
And further still at an unearthly height,
One luminary clock against the sky

Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right
I have been one acquainted with the night.


----------
[first read on Academy of American Poets; available for free online]