STOPPING BY THE SNOW ON
A WOODY EVENING
Oh dear, what can the matter be? I have mislaid my sled and
my shovel. Hence, I shall walk the fence, though there is
something that does not like this movement. My shoes, of an
old New England leather, are by now wet and foul and thick
and frozen - as are my fine, farmer's feet. Not far from where
I put the plow, I shall raise a match and star a fire now.
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