Stopping in the Woods on a Snowy Evening - by Robert Frost

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.