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.