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.
By: Robert Frost
.