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Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening

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.

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Comments (1)

If this is a confessional poem, I'm sorry you're in such a bad place, Ing. But please don't say you'll 'do anything at all cost.' That makes you a prime candidate for Bob Gotti, a proselytizer on this site who would tell you to accept Jesus Christ as your savior and then everything will be hunky dory (and if you don't, 'Christ will crush [your] head') .