more or less . . .

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 promises to keep,
and miles to go before i sleep.
and miles to go before i sleep.
~r. frost, "stopping by woods on a snowy evening"


(do forgive me for being redundant. i realize i've said this before . . .