Frost

Woods, when dim and newly snown,
And while not so far widely known
(Though odd theories have appeared),
Shape a landscape all their own,

Their easy pastures strangely cleared –
If you will, unsouvenir’d –
Of mistaken strangers and their horses,
Who must think it frankly weird

That a woodland’s natural forces,
Left abruptly to their own recourses,
Might need an audience to show
Their sweeping, downy, dark resources:

We ourselves can stop, but snow
Continues if we stay or go:
We’re miles from being in the know –

But sleep as always, little ego,
Lovely, deep, and incognito.