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.





