"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.
My little horse must
think it queer
To stop without a
farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen
lake
The darkest evening of
the year.
He gives his harness
bells a shake
To ask if there is some
mistake.
The only other sound's
the sweep
Of easy wind and downy
flake.
The woods are lovely,
dark, and deep.
But I have promises to
keep,
And miles to go before I
sleep,
And miles to go before I
sleep."
Robert Frost
