![](https://abinsfeld.de/wp-content/uploads/2019/12/191207-ternell-steff1-2194.jpg)
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.
![](https://abinsfeld.de/wp-content/uploads/2019/12/191207-ternell-steff2-2204.jpg)
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.
![](https://abinsfeld.de/wp-content/uploads/2019/12/191207-ternell-steff3-2205.jpg)
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.
![](https://abinsfeld.de/wp-content/uploads/2019/12/191207-ternell-steff4-2211.jpg)
The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
BY ROBERT FROST
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
![](https://abinsfeld.de/wp-content/uploads/2019/12/191207-ternell-steff5-2218.jpg)