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Whose Woods These Are I Think I Know
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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And now for my mirror poem,
The Young Confederate Marches
Christopher Parker
I am but young, with only time
And age to spend. But here, nearby,
The whaling whine of cannon grounds
My summers, loves and tiny crimes
To dust. I march among the mounds
Of dead, in time to beating sounds.
Not drums, but hearts. Not flutes, but feet
On bones of fallen soldiers, ground
To dust. Who we, of course, will meet
In time. And other youths shall beat
The bones I leave behind, abhor
The boom of cannon shells and weep.
Perhaps we'll have our youth once more---
A few more games along the shore.
Instead, today, I march to war,
Instead, today, I march to war.
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