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Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening

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.

Robert Frost