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.
