Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, And sorry I could not travel both. And be one traveler, long I stood. And looked down one as far as I could To where it bent in the undergrowth; Then took the other, as just as fair, And having perhaps the better claim, Because it was grassy and wanted wear; Though as for that the passing there.

Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay

In leaves no step had trodden black.

Oh, I kept the first for another day!

Yet knowing how way leads on to way,

I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh

Somewhere ages and ages hence:

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I —

I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference. ^[1]

[1] Robert Frost

Somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond any experience, your eyes have their silence: in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me, or which I cannot touch because they are too near your slightest look easily will unclose me though I have closed myself as fingers.

You open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens

(touching skillfully, mysteriously)her first rose

or if your wish be to close me, i and

my life will shut very beautifully, suddenly,

as when the heart of this flower imagines

the snow carefully everywhere descending;

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals

the power of your intense fragility: whose texture

compels me with the color of its countries,

rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes

and opens; only something in me understands

the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)

nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands ^[1]

[1] e.e. cummings

Should lanterns shine, the holy face, Caught in an octagon of unaccustomed light, Would wither up, and any boy of love. Look twice before he fell from grace. The features in their private dark. Are formed of flesh, but let the false day come. And from her lips the added pigments fall, The mummy cloths expose an ancient breast.

I have been taught to reason by the heart, But heart, like head, leads helplessly; I have been told to reason by the pulse, And, when it quickens, alter the actions’ pace Till field and roof lie level and the same

So fast I move defying time, the quiet gentleman Whose beard wags in Egyptian wind.

So fast I move defying time, the quiet gentleman Whose beard wags in Egyptian wind. I have heard many years of telling, And many years should see some change. The ball I threw while playing in the park Has not yet reached the ground. ^[1]

[1] Dylan Thomas

They are all gone away, The House is shut and still, There is nothing more to say. Through broken walls and gray. The winds blow bleak and shrill; They are all gone away. Nor is there one today To speak them good or ill: There is nothing more to say. Why is it then we stray Around that sunken sill? They are all gone away, And our poor fancy-play For them is wasted skill: There is nothing more to say. There is ruin and decay In the House on the Hill: They are all gone away, There is nothing more to say. ^[1]

Literary Analysis

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Donec nec dolor erat, condimentum sagittis sem. Praesent porttitor porttitor risus, dapibus rutrum ipsum gravida et. Integer lectus nisi, facilisis sit amet eleifend nec, pharetra ut augue. Integer quam nunc, consequat nec egestas ac, volutpat ac nisi.

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Lorem Ipsum Dolor Sit Amet Consectetur Adip

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Nam quis sem orci. Phasellus ligula tellus, lobortis nec accumsan eget, mattis at erat.

[1] Edwin Arlington Robinson

She walks in beauty, like the night Of cloudless climes and starry skies; And all that’s best of dark and bright Meet in her aspect and her eyes; Thus mellowed to that tender light Which heaven to gaudy day denies. One shade the more, one ray the less, Had half impaired the nameless grace Which waves in every raven tress, Or softly lightens o’er her face;

Where thoughts serenely sweet express, How pure, how dear their dwelling-place. And on that cheek, and o’er that brow, So soft, so calm, yet eloquent, The smiles that win, the tints that glow, But tell of days in goodness spent, A mind at peace with all below, A heart whose love is innocent! ^[1]

So soft, so calm, yet eloquent, The smiles that win, the tints that glow

Literary Analysis

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Lorem Ipsum Dolor Sit

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Further Analysis

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[1] Lord (George Gordon) Byron

Rain at Muchalat, rain at Sooke,  And rain, they say, from Yale to Skeena,  And the skid-roads blind, and never a look  Of the Coast Range blue over Malaspina,  And west winds keener  Than jack-knife blades,  And rocks grown greener  With the long drip-drip from the cedar shades  On the drenched deep soil where the footsteps suck,  And the camp half-closed and the pay-roll leaner, — Say, little horse, shall we hunt our luck? Yet... I don't know... there’s an hour at night When the clouds brea? and the stars are turning.

A thousand points of diamond light Through the old snags of the cedar-burning, And the west wind’s spurning A hundred highlands, And the frost-moon’s learning The white fog-ways of the outer islands, And the shallows are dark with the sleeping duck, And life’s a wonder for our discerning, — Say, little horse, shall we wait our luck? ^[1]

Literary Analysis

Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipisicing elit, sed do eiusmod tempor incididunt ut labore et dolore magna aliqua. Ut enim ad minim veniam, quis nostrud exercitation ullamco laboris nisi ut aliquip ex ea commodo consequat.

Lorem Ipsum Dolor Sit Amet Consectetur

Duis aute irure dolor in reprehenderit in voluptate velit esse cillum dolore eu fugiat nulla pariatur. Excepteur sint occaecat cupidatat non proident, sunt in culpa qui officia deserunt mollit anim id est laborum. Donec elementum ligula eu sapien consequat eleifend.

[1] Marjorie Pickthall

Night fell one year ago, like this. He had been writing steadily. Among these dusky walls of books, How bright he looked, intense as flame! Suddenly he paused, The firelight in his hair, And said, “The time has come to go” I took his hand; We watched the logs burn out; The apple boughs fingered the window;Down the cool, spring nightA slim, white moon leaned to the hill. ^[1]

Night fell one year ago, like this.

O white moon, I wonder if he sleeps in woods Where there are leaves? Or if he lies in some black trench, His hands, his kind hands, kindling flame that kills?Or if, or if …He is here now, to bid me last good-night?

Night fell one year ago, like this. He had been writing steadily. Among these dusky walls of books, How bright he looked, intense as flame! Suddenly he paused,The firelight in his hair, And said, “The time has come to go” I took his hand; We watched the logs burn out;

.night-fell {
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  width: 100%;
  z-index: 2;

  @include animated(fadeInDown, 800ms, ease-out);

  @include iphone {
    padding-top: 15px;
  }
}

Literary Analysis

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• Sit amet, consectetur
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Quisque est dui, auctor ac adipiscing at, facilisis ac magna. Mauris semper iaculis erat, sed facilisis felis ultrices eu. Phasellus ut orci non lectus ornare facilisis. Suspendisse gravida malesuada mollis. Praesent rutrum orci non nulla aliquet aliquam.

[1] Florence Ripley Mastin