Whose woods are these 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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3 comments:
This poem is one of my absolute favorites...so wintry. I wish I had woods to stop by on a snowy evening. Sounds like an excellent place to soul-search...a hiding place.
For those of you that don't understand...pfffft...clearly you are not introverted.
Lynne
Oh, thanks for putting this one up...I love it.
When I was in choir we had to sing this as one of our songs
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