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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. |
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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. |
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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. |
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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. |