Who's 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 sounds, 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.