Whose woods these are 1 think 1 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 1 have promises to
keep,
And miles to go before 1 sleep,
And miles to go before 1 sleep.
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