by Robert Frost
A Late Walk
Storm Fear


There is no oversight of human affairs.
 HOW countlessly they congregate  O'er our tumultuous snow,  Which flows in shapes as tall as trees  When wintry winds do blow!-   As if with keenness for our fate,  Our faltering few steps on  To white rest, and a place of rest  Invisible at dawn,-   And yet with neither love nor hate,  Those stars like some snow-white  Minerva's snow-white marble eyes  Without the gift of sight.