“Immature poets imitate; mature poets steal.” (T.S. Eliot)
Whose woods these areI think I know
and will therefore
try to be discreet.
It’s getting harder to see the path
with all this fog coming in on little cat feet,
but, after all, we learn by going
where we have to go.
And, it has to be said,
these woods are lovely,
dark and deep
and I do so love hiking.
I’m sure I’ll come out of them
in due time and go gently
home into that good night.
[Quiz: Can you identify the four poets I stole from, one twice?]
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