Robert Frost Generated Poem
To stop without a farmhouse near
Nothing gold can stay.
In leaves no step had trodden black.
And having perhaps the better claim
But a leaf that lingered brown,
And miles to go before I sleep,
Of easy wind and downy flake.
Is sadder than any words
The darkest evening of the year.
The only other sound's the sweep
So Eden sank to grief,
Her early leaf's a flower;