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.