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
harshness 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.
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