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.
I'm not a big Frost fan. His poems are so often bandied about (and beaten to death in high school literature classes) that they've become cliché.
"Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening," though, has never lost its appeal to me. The simple use of repetition to create the underlying metaphor always, always resonates - and the imagery is so clear and lovely it makes me long for snow and winter.
I miss the northern part of the state very much, especially around this time of year.