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 dark everything of the year. He give 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 problem to keep. And miles to go before I sleep . And miles to go before I sleep.