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Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of 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.

This poem is in the public domain

Robert Lee Frost (1874 – 1963) American poet. His work was initially published in England before it was published in the United States. Known for his realistic depictions of rural life and his command of American colloquial speech, Frost frequently wrote about settings from rural life in New England in the early 20th century, using them to examine complex social and philosophical themes.
Frequently honored during his lifetime, Frost is the only poet to receive four Pulitzer Prizes for Poetry. He became one of America's rare "public literary figures, almost an artistic institution". He was awarded the Congressional Gold Medal in 1960 for his poetic works. On July 22, 1961, Frost was named poet laureate of Vermont. Wikipedia

Slim Sentinels
Stretching lacy arms
About a slumbrous moon;
Black quivering
Silhouettes,
Tremulous,
Stencilled on the petal
Of a bluebell;
Ink sputtered
On a robin’s breast;
The jagged rent
Of mountains
Reflected in a
Stilly sleeping lake;
Fragile pinnacles
Of fairy castles;
Torn webs of shadows;
And
Printed ’gainst the sky—
The trembling beauty
Of an urgent pine.

Helene Johnson (1906-1995) - Writer and poet during the Harlem Renaissance movement. Johnson published many poems in small magazines during the1920s and early 1930s, including the first and only issue of Fire!!. Although Johnson continued to write, and her work appeared in anthologies, she never published original poetry again. Read more

This poem is in the public domain.

Look, in the early light, 
   Down to the infinite 
   Depths at the deep grass-roots; 
  Where the sun shoots 
In golden veins, as looking through 
   A dear pool one sees it do; 
   Where campion drifts 
Its bladders, iris-brinded, through the rifts 
  Of rising, falling seed
   That the winds lightly scour—
Down to the matted earth where over 
   And over again crow’s-foot and clover
  And pink bindweed
  Dimly, steadily flower.

This poem is in the public domain.

Michael Field was a pseudonym used for the poetry and verse drama of the English authors Katherine Harris Bradley (1846 – 1914) and her niece and ward Edith Emma Cooper (1862 – 1913). As Field they wrote around 40 works together, and a long journal Works and Days. Their intention was to keep the pen-name secret, but it became public knowledge, not long after they had confided in their friend Robert Browning

Only a night from old to new!
Only a night, and so much wrought!
The Old Year's heart all weary grew,
But said: "The New Year rest has brought."
The Old Year's hopes its heart laid down,
As in a grave; but, trusting, said:
"The blossoms of the New Year's crown
Bloom from the ashes of the dead."
The Old Year's heart was full of greed;
With selfishness it longed and ached,
And cried: "I have not half I need.
My thirst is bitter and unslaked.
But to the New Year's generous hand
All gifts in plenty shall return;
True love it shall understand;
By all my failures it shall learn.
I have been reckless; it shall be
Quiet and calm and pure of life.
I was a slave; it shall go free,
And find sweet peace where I leave strife."
Only a night from old to new!
Never a night such changes brought.
The Old Year had its work to do;
No New Year miracles are wrought.

Always a night from old to new!
Night and the healing balm of sleep!
Each morn is New Year's morn come true,
Morn of a festival to keep.
All nights are sacred nights to make
Confession and resolve and prayer;
All days are sacred days to wake
New gladness in the sunny air.
Only a night from old to new;
Only a sleep from night to morn.
The new is but the old come true;
Each sunrise sees a new year born.

Helen Hunt Jackson - (1830 – 1885).  American poet and writer, born Helen Maria Fiske. She became an activist on behalf of improved treatment of Native Americans by the U. S. Government. Writing under her Pen name, H.H, she described the adverse effects of government actions in her history book,  "A Century of Dishonor" (1881). Her novel "Ramona "(1884) dramatized the federal government's mistreatment of Native Americans in Southern California after the Mexican–American War and attracted considerable attention to her cause  and estimated to have been reprinted 300 times. 

What can be said in New Year rhymes,
That's not been said a thousand times?

The new years come, the old years go,
We know we dream, we dream we know.

We rise up laughing with the light,
We lie down weeping with the night.

We hug the world until it stings,
We curse it then and sigh for wings.

We live, we love, we woo, we wed,
We wreathe our brides, we sheet our dead.

We laugh, we weep, we hope, we fear,
And that's the burden of the year.

Ella Wheeler Wilcox (November 5, 1850 – October 30, 1919) was an American author and poet. Her works include Poems of Passion and Solitude, which contains the lines "Laugh, and the world laughs with you; weep, and you weep alone." Her autobiography, "The Worlds and I", was published in 1918, a year before her death. Read more

"I slept, and dreamed that life was Beauty;
I woke, and found that life was Duty.
Was thy dream then a shadowy lie?
Toil on, sad heart, courageously,
And thou shalt find thy dream to be
A noonday light and truth to thee."

From The Dial (July 1840) p. 123  - I Slept, and Dreamed that Life was BeautyBy Ellen Sturgis Hooper

Frail children of sorrow, dethroned by a hue,
The shadows are flecked by the rose sifting through,
The world has its motion, all things pass away;
No night is omnipotent, there must be day!

The oak tarries long in the depths of the seed
But swift is the season of nettle and weed,
Abide yet awhile in the mellowing shade
And rise with the hour for which you were made.

The cycle of seasons, the tidals of man,
Revolve in the orb of the infinite plan;
We move to the rhythm of ages long done,
And each has his hour — to dwell in the sun!

Georgia Douglas Johnson (1880 – 1966), American poet and playwright, music teacher and school principal, born in Atlanta, Georgia. She was an important figure of the Harlem Renaissance and one of the earliest female African-American playwiters. She published her first poems in 1916 in the NAACP’s magazine Crisis where she wrote a weekly column, “Homely Philosophy,” from 1926 to 1932. Douglas Johnson also wrote plays, and four collections of poetry: The Heart of  a Woman (1918). Bronze (1922) and An Autumn Love Cycle (1928), and Share My World (1962). More

               "NIght"

The night has a thousand eyes,
     And the day but one;
Yet the light of the bright world dies
      With the dying sun.

The mind has a thousand eyes,
    And the heart but one:
Yet the light of a whole life dies
    When love is done.

Francis William Bourdillon (1852 - 1921) was a British poet, translator and a bibliophile. Bourdillon is known for his poetry, and in particular, for the single short poem "The Night Has a Thousand Eyes". He had many poem collections and essays published, including three smaller volumes of verse published anonymously at Oxford between 1891 and 1894.

Photo credit: RezaAskarii

My Heart Has Known Its Winter

A little while spring will claim its own,
In all the land around for mile on mile
Tender grass will hide the rugged stone.
My still heart will sing a little while.

And men will never think this wilderness
Was barren once when grass is over all,
Hearing laughter they may never guess
My heart has known its winter and carried gall.

This poem is in the public domain

Arna Bontemps (1902-1973)  Poet, writer, teacher, novelist. Born in Alexandria, Louisiana, the son of Creole parents. Bontemps published his first poem, "Hope" In 1924, which was followed by other poems, children's books and fiction writings; including "God Sends Sunday" (1931) and "You Can't Pet a Possum" (1934). He  published his novel "Black Thunder" in 1936  which is considered by some as his best work. Followed by the children's book "Sad-Faced Boy" (1937), and his novel, "Drums at Dusk" (1939). This book was more widely recognized than his other novels.

Gettin' together to smile an' rejoice,
An' eatin' an' laughin' with folks of your choice;
An' kissin' the girls an' declarin' that they
Are growin' more beautiful day after day;
Chattin' an' braggin' a bit with the men,
Buildin' the old family circle again;
Livin' the wholesome an' old-fashioned cheer,
Just for awhile at the end of the year.

Greetings fly fast as we crowd through the door
And under the old roof we gather once more
Just as we did when the youngsters were small;
Mother's a little bit grayer, that's all.
Father's a little bit older, but still
Ready to romp an' to laugh with a will.
Here we are back at the table again
Tellin' our stories as women an' men.

Bowed are our heads for a moment in prayer;
Oh, but we're grateful an' glad to be there.
Home from the east land an' home from the west,
Home with the folks that are dearest an' best.
Out of the sham of the cities afar
We've come for a time to be just what we are.
Here we can talk of ourselves an' be frank,
Forgettin' position an' station an' rank.

Give me the end of the year an' its fun
When most of the plannin' an' toilin' is done;
Bring all the wanderers home to the nest,
Let me sit down with the ones I love best,
Hear the old voices still ringin' with song,
See the old faces unblemished by wrong,
See the old table with all of its chairs
An' I'll put soul in my Thanksgivin' prayers.

Edgar Albert Guest (1881 – 1959) was a British-born American poet who became known as the People's Poet. His family moved from England to Detroit, Michigan when he was ten years old and he lived there the rest of his life. He worked for the Detroit Free
Press for 64 years. He published more than twenty volumes of poetry and was thought to have written over 12,000 poems. His poems often had an inspirational and optimistic view of everyday life. Of his poems he said, "I take simple everyday things that happen to me and I figure it happens to a lot of other people and I make simple rhymes out of them. "His popularity led NBC to produce a weekly 15-minute radio program, “Guest in Your Home,” which ran from 1931 to 1942. The Joplin Globe editorialized his passing by quoting Philip Coldren, the late editorial page editor who wrote that the key to Guest’s greatness was “that among the thousands of Guest poems, ‘there has not been a single one that has promoted wickedness or meanness or anything else but kindness and gentleness and peace and hope."

                   Pity the Nation 

Pity the nation whose people are sheep
And whose shepherds mislead them
Pity the nation whose leaders are liars
Whose sages are silenced
and whose bigots haunt the airways
Pity the nation that raises not its voice
but aims to rule the world
by force and by torture
And knows
No other language but its own
Pity the nation whose breath is money
and sleeps the sleep of the too well fed
Pity the nation Oh pity the people of my country
My country, tears of thee
Sweet land of liberty! 

Lawrence Monsanto Ferlinghetti (1919 – 2021) was an American poet, painter, social activist, and co-founder of City Lights Booksellers & Publishers. Ferlinghetti was best known for his second collection of poems, A Coney Island of the Mind (1958), which has been translated into nine languages and sold over a million copies. He published his Poem " Pity the Nation in 2007 toward the end of Bob Bush second term to tell what he felt was wrong about the USA . It was also a response to Kahil Gibran’s 1933 poem Pity the Nation. Gibran’s poem was about Pakistan. Video of Ferlinghetti reading the poem

"Traveler, There Is No Road"

“Traveler, your footprints are
the road, and nothing more;
Traveler, there is no road,
the road is made as you walk.
By walking the road is made,
and as you look behind you
you see the trail that never
will be walked on again.
Traveler, there is no road,
only wakes on the sea.”

Antonio Machado - (1875 – 1939), Antonio Cipriano José María y Francisco de Santa Ana Machado y Ruiz was a Spanish poet and one of the leading figures of the Spanish literary movement known as the Generation of 98. His work, initially modernist, evolved towards an intimate form of symbolism with romantic traits. He gradually developed a style characterized by both an engagement with humanity on one side and an almost Taoist contemplation of existence on the other, a synthesis that according to The Spanish poet and writer, Gerard Diego, was quoted to say , Machado "spoke in verse and lived in poetry." Machado is considered one of the best poets in the Spanish language of the 20th century. More  

  Original Spanish Version:
“Caminante, no hay camino"

“Caminante, son tus huellas
el camino, y nada más;
Caminante, no hay camino,
se hace camino al andar.
Al andar se hace el camino,
y al volver la vista atrás
se ve la senda que nunca
se ha de volver a pisar.
Caminante, no hay camino
sino estelas en la mar.”

Translation credit: C. Loben (2022)