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 farhouse 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.