With respects to Robert Frost.
Whose brain this is I think I know. His mind is often elsewhere though; He will not see me stopping here To watch his psyche ebb and flow. My little id must think it queer To stop without an ego near Between a dream and wide awake, The starkest visions of the year. I give my nervous cells a shake To ask if there is some mistake. The only other sound's the sweep Of nimble thought and steady ache My brain is lovely, dark and deep, But I have promises to keep, And miles to go before I sleep, And miles to go before I sleep.