Closed For Good

They come not back with steedAnd chariot to chideMy slowness with their speedAnd scare me to one side. They have found other scenesFor haste and other means. They leave the road to meTo walk in saying naughtPerhaps but to a treeInaudibly in thought,“From you the road receives A priming coat of leaves. “And soon for lack of sun,The prospects are in whiteIt will be further done,But with a coat so lightThe shape of leaves will showBeneath the spread of snow.” And so on into winterTill even I have ceased To come as a foot printer,And only some slight beast So mousy or so foxy Shall print there as my proxy. - Robert Frost