Robert Frost
Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house in in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
The 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 and dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
And miles to go before I sleep.
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1 comment:
I should read poetry more often. For some reason, I usually ignore it, even though it often stirs my soul and raises goose bumps on my arms.
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