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;
When I have fears that I may cease to be / Before my pen has gleaned my teeming brain, / Before high-pilèd
books, in charactery, / Hold like rich garners the full ripened grain. / And think that I may
never live to trace / Their shadows with
the magic hand of
chance— / And when I feel, fair creature of
an hour, / That I shall never look upon thee more, / Never have relish in the fairy power / Of unreflecting love—then
on the shore / Of the wide world I stand alone, and think / Till love and fame to nothingness do sink. / Then on
the shore / Of the wide world I stand alone, and think / Till love and fame to nothingness do sink;
She walks in beauty, like the night / Of cloudless climes and starry skies; / And all that’s best of dark and bright / Meet in her aspect and her eyes; / Thus mellowed to that tender
light / Which heaven to gaudy day denies. / One shade the more, one ray the less, / Had half impaired the nameless
grace / Which waves in every raven tress, / Or softly lightens o’er
her face; / Where thoughts serenely sweet express / How pure, how dear their dwelling-place. / And on that cheek, and o’er that brow, / So soft, so calm, yet eloquent, / The smiles that win, the tints that glow, / But tell of days in
goodness spent, / A mind at peace with all below, / A heart whose love is innocent! / A heart whose love is innocent!