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 the 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 sounds 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
you
Read by Shane Morris.
-
Written by Robert Frost, 1922.
-
A short poem told from the perspective of a traveller who stops to watch the snow fall, and, in doing so, reflects on the conflict between man and nature and the wishes and obligations we face in our lives.