While I’ve a nearly lifelong love for Kipling, plus a number of the classic english poets, I have also developed a liking for a number of poems by Robert Frost, such as this example posted recently at Men of the West.

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.