Often I lose myself in such distances and numbers that I fear
I shall never find myself again.
But unexpectedly the opposites fuse in a poem.
From the century’s amorphous nebulae in the Self
a new star was born,
in convincing unity.
And the expanding universe of poetry
continues to baffle the astrologers.
— Ondra Lysohorsky
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 his harness bells a shakeTo ask if there is some mistake.The only other sound’s the sweepOf 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.
"Cause if you’re happy in your head then solitude is blessed and alone is okay."
HaperCollins: Making My Favorite Things Into Books