SEE ALL TAGS & MOODS
My bands of silk and miniver
Momently grew heavier;
The black gauze was beggarly thin;
There’s a race of men that don’t fit in,
A race that can’t stay still;
So they break the hearts of kith and kin,
“Oh where are you going with your love-locks flowing
On the west wind blowing along this valley track?”
“The downhill path is easy, come with me an it please ye,
When I consider how my light is spent,
Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide,
And that one Talent which is death to hide
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
