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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.
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