His house is in the village, though,
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
To stop without a farmhouse near
The darkest evening of the year.
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