Whose woods these are I think I know,
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping there,
To watch his words fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farm house near
Between the words and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake,
To 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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