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. 

                               -- Robert Frost