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.
Robert Frost,
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