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.
Comments
Post a Comment