STOPPING BY
WOODS ON A SNOWY EVENING
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 down flake.
The woods are
lovely, ark, and deep,
But I have
promises to keep,
And miles to go
before I sleep,
And miles to go
before I sleep.
Robert Frost
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