Sunday, December 14, 2008


Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
by Robert Frost

                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.


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