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
