Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in 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.