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.  

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.  

I think that I shall never see 
A poem lovely as a tree. 

A tree whose hungry mouth is prest 
Against the earth's sweet flowing breast; 

A tree that looks at God all day, 
And lifts her leafy arms to pray; 

A tree that may in Summer wear 
A nest of robins in her hair; 

Upon whose bosom snow has lain; 
Who intimately lives with rain. 

Take the water to the mountain;  
Take the river to the sea.  
Let the forest be salvation  
Long before it needs to be.  

Take the water to the mountain;  
Let your body flow upstream.  
Let it cascade off your shoulders;  
Be the body of your dreams.  

Take the water to the mountain;  
Let the sun shine on your ground.  
You decide your every movement;  
Let the water to the land.  

Take the water to the mountain;  
Cross the Great Divide of Love.  
Put to Nature all you can give;  
Let the Mother know your heart.  

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.