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.

by Robert Frost

Comments (1)

I really liked this one. I can see why some people would say that your work is, well, esoteric... but yes, I agree with the idea that the words are your own, poetry our word sculptures. Sometimes I like to string words together just because they sound good, or look good, or feel right. And they become something much more than what they mean then. Many thanks for your (sometimes unintelligible efforts) , I find them a pleasure to read - something like listening to a nice sounding foreign language. Danielle.