Stopping
By Woods on a Snowy Evening
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.
—Robert
Frost
A poem from my deep past . . .
image: Thyme and Again
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