Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening

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.