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 woods are lovely, dark and deep
But I have promises to keep,And miles to go before I sleep.
Robert Frost -- an outstanding poet. This poem has an essence of mystery. It
conveys cool intensity and vastness of space.
Republished
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