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.


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

Fog by Carl Sandburg

The fog comes

on little cat feet. 

It sits looking

over harbor and city

on silent haunches

and then moves on.

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[poem is in multiple collections in print and for free online]