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's 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's 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.