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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 promisee to keep ,
And miles to go before I sleep ,
And miles to go before I sleep .
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