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.

- Robert Frost