by Robert Frost
Whose wood these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his wood fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near.
Between the wood 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 that sweeps
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The wood 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.