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 snowy 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
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