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’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.

Login to comment...
Email

Other works by Robert Frost...

We need your help

Unlike many other websites, we haven’t put up a paywall – we want to keep access to poetry as open as we can. Growing and maintaining Poeticous takes a lot of time, money and hard work, and the revenue we get from advertising is almost nothing, so we increasingly need our readers to fund us. If everyone who reads our pages, who likes it, helps fund it, our future would be much more secure. Support Poetiocus from as little as $1.