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 farmhouse¹ near

　　Between the woods and the 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 flake².

　　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