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

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