POEM

STOPPING BY WOODS ON A SNOWY EVENING
Whose woods these are I think I now. 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 befor I sleep, and miles to go befor I sleep.