Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
by Robert Frost
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.
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