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.by Robert Frost
I figured I'd start with my favorite poem and my favorite poet.
YOU ARE READING
Poems by Poets
PoetryI figured I'd create a collection of my favorite poems. (This is probably gonna have a lot of Robert Frost because he's my favorite )