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 farmhouse1 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 flake2.

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.