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.