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Stopping by the Woods on a Snowy Evening

 

by Robert Frost - 1874 to 1963

 

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.