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 house would think it queer To stop without a farmhouse near between the wood and a frozen lake The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake To ask if there is some is the sweep Of easy wind and downy the flake
The woods are lovely ,dark and deep But I have promises to keep,And miles to go before I sleep And mile to go before I sleep