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What if the sun comes out
And the new furrows do not look smeared?
This is April, and the sumach candles
When I have fears that I may cease to be
Before my pen has gleaned my teeming brain,
Before high-pilèd books, in charactery,
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I’ve tasted of desire
I grieve and dare not show my discontent,
I love and yet am forced to seem to hate,
I do, yet dare not say I ever meant,
We wear the mask that grins and lies,
It hides our cheeks and shades our eyes, —
This debt we pay to human guile;
Tyger! Tyger! burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye