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 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