Stopping by the woods on a snowy evening

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house in 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,
and I have promises to keep,
and miles to go before I sleep,
and miles to go before I sleep.

from The Poetry of Robert Frost