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.