Robert Frost Forrister

Whose woods are these I think I know
His house is in the village, though
He will not see me stop to watch here
As 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

These 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
Miles to go before I sleep and
Miles to go before I sleep
Miles to go before I sleep
And miles to go before I sleep