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 is 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
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