Whose woods these are, I think I know.
Unchanged, but not the same.
The blanket unfurled, its downy pillows clinging to branch and bough.
Whose woods these are, I think I know.
The balsam a balm for the aches and the weariness.
These woods, they are mine.
Yet they don't belong to me.
I claim them from memory, from sentiment.
From geography, from time.
This snowy evening, in this remote place
On this tiny speck in an infinite universe
They are mine.