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.