Stopping by Woods

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.

Yet still the woods within me stay,
Their hush outlives the dying day,
And though I turn toward roads of men,
Their calm recalls me, far away.

The stars lean low through veils of white,
Their silver whispers crown the night;
I long to linger, lost, unseen,
But duty calls before the light.

The path is dim, the air is clear,
Yet something speaks I almost hear—
A voice that dwells in frost and pine,
That bids me rest, yet draws me near.

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.