Robert Frost

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