Nature's first green is gold, / Her hardest hue to hold. / Her early leaf's a flower; / But only so an hour. / Then leaf subsides to leaf. / So Eden sank to grief, / So dawn goes down to day. / Nothing gold can stay.
Robert Frost
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Robert Frost
Lived on stony New England farms and wrote about them. The poems aren't really about woods or roads. They're about choosing.