STOPPING BY THE 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 ;
He will not see me stopping here,
Between the woods and frogen 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