When the poet stands, the horse

Whose woods these are I think I know,     His house is in the village thought,     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... Show more

Whose woods these are I think I know,    
His house is in the village thought,    
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

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