Stopping by Woods
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Robert Frost
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Whose woods these are I think I know.
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His house is in the village though;
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He will not see me stopping here
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To watch his woods fill up with snow.
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My little horse must think it queer
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To stop with out a farm house near
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Between the woods and frozen lake
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The darkest evening of the year.
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He gives his harness bells a shake
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To ask if there is some mistake.
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The only other sound's the sweep
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Of easy wind and downy flake.
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The woods are lovely dark and deep
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But I have promises to keep,
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And miles to go before I sleep,
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And miles to go before I sleep.
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