Potential Matches: 1 : The fog comes/on little cat feet 2 : How now, Mr. Shakespeare, should a poet say what poetry should not express 3 : The sky is low, the clouds are mean,/A travelling flake of snow/Across a barn or through a rut/Debates if it will go. 4 : I think I know enough of hate/To say that for destruction ice/Is also great/And would suffice. 5 : Water, water, everywhere,/Nor any (but not a) drop to drink. 6 : And all the lands belong to the crown. 7 : One of these days these boots/are gonna walk all over you. 8 : The woods are lovely, dark and deep./But I have promises to keep 9 :

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