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.