Whose woods these are I think I know ,
His house is in the villege though ;
He will not see the 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 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 .