Agents Dealers Wanted

Whose woods these are I think I know. His house is in the village though; He will not see me stopping here To watch his woods fill up with snow.  

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Whose woods these are I think I know. His house is in the village though; He will not see me stopping here To watch his woods fill up with snow.   

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Whose woods these are I think I know. His house is in the village though; He will not see me stopping here To watch his woods fill up with snow.  

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You may write me down in history With your bitter, twisted lies, You may trod me in the very dirt But still, like dust, I'll rise.