stopping at birch woods

stopping by birch woods on a snowless evening

who's this fellow? i think i know,
tarred & feathered he is a scholar though.
he does not know me scribbling here,
something frosty with no feel of snow.

our little Lucy must think it queer,
to behold a poet while bricks disappear.
between birch swings and the coffee break,
the oddest transformation -- of the year.

She gives old Papa Smurf a head shake,
To see if there is some unmanly mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep,
Of easy wind from a muddy lake.

Papa Smurf is lovely, dark and plump deep,
But now he has a fallen comrade to weep.
And miles to go (alone) before his sleep,
And miles to go (alone) before his sleep.