Whose woods these are, I think I know,
his house is out of sight, although
he will not mind my watching here
as woodland bids farewell to snow.
The neighbor's dog must think it queer
that I am paused, mid walk, right here,
between his lane and thawing lake
the warmest day, thus far, this year.
He barks and gives his head a shake
to say I've made a grave mistake;
I tune him out, tune in the sweep
of birdsong, fear my heart may break.
The air is filled with trill and cheep,
I cannot stay all day to weep;
life must be lived before I sleep,
life must be lived before I sleep.