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.