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 is 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 ga before I sleep.