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.
Welcome to poetry appreciation week. I can’t even begin to tell you, dear reader, how many times I’ve come to what should be the end of a long day, only to have yet more to do. I’ve oft repeated the last verse over and over on my way to get “just one more thing” done. Only in my head, it’s always been “the woods are lonely, dark and deep…”