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.
