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.