Whose Woods These Are I Think I Know

In honor of the quiet joy of deepening Winter, I offer my annual poem 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.