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's 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. ROBERT FROST - 1923 Frost called it "my best bid for remembrance"