by Rudyard Kipling, 1892 . . .

If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run--
Yours is the earth and everything that's in it,
And -- which is more -- you'll be a Man, my son!

Miles To Go Before I Sleep

    a poem by Robert Frost . . .



Whose woods these are I think I know

His house is in the village though
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake

The woods are lovely, dark and deep
But I have promises to keep
And miles to go before I sleep
And miles to go before I sleep