STOPPING BY THE WOODS ON SNOWY EVENING
Robert Frost
Whose woods these are O 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 house must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkness evening of the year
He gives his harness bells a shake
The only other sounds 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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