Whose woods these       think I know.
 His house is    the village, though;
 He will not     me stopping here
 To watch his            up with snow.

 My little horse      think it queer
 To stop without a farmhouse near
 Between the woods and frozen lake
 The darkest evening of the year.

 He gives his         bells a shake
 To ask if       is some mistake.
 The only other sound's the sweep
 Of easy wind and downy flake.

 The woods are         dark and deep,
 But I have promises to keep,
 And miles to    before I sleep,
 And miles to    before I sleep.