Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening by Robert Frost     

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 odd,
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.