![](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuPQGAVdib-hgs6-GSbHmWLxY_lEuRoi3h2QDDr4duzuo32AcxqmGMNAL-oNwPQA88V4TRu3sEQI-gyMbODxBE4b4L-Ka5J_DlqvtV3mo_V9DoE9Fc2oy_s2d-l7dR2ZewhNRDglfyc68/s400/post-6518-1177772336.jpg)
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.