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 many miles to go before I sleep,
and many miles to go before I sleep.