Poetry Pulp

Quis his locus, quae regio, quae mundio plaga?


I WANDER'D lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.


"Is ANYBODY there?" said the Traveler,
Knocking on the moonlit door;
And his horse in the silence chomped the grasses
Of the forest's ferny floor.
And a bird flew up out of the turret,
Above the traveler's head,
And he smote upon the door a second time;
"Is there anybody there?" he said.


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.


What SEAS what shores what grey rocks and what islands
What water lapping the brow
And scent of pine and woodthrush singing through the fog
What images return
And WHEN all the world came back
And the light crept up between the shutt
And you heard the sparrows in the gutters,
You had such a vision of the street
As the street hardly understands

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.