Robert Frost – Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening

Whose woods these are I think I know.His house is in the village, though;He will not see me stopping hereTo watch his woods fill up with snow.My little horse must think it queerTo stop without a farmhouse nearBetween the woods and frozen lakeThe darkest evening of the year.He gives...

George Eliot – Count That Day Lost

 If you sit down at set of sunAnd count the acts that you have done,And, counting, findOne self-denying deed, one wordThat eased the heart of him who heard,One glance most kindThat fell like sunshine where it went – Then you may count that day well spent.But if, through all...