Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening

by Robert Frost

Whose woods these are I think I know. 

His home is in the town, however;

He won't see me ceasing here 

To watch his woods top off with snow. 

My little steed must think it eccentric 

To stop without a farmhouse close 

Between the forested areas and solidified lake 

The darkest night of the year. 

He gives his outfit ringers a shake 

To inquire as to whether there is some slip-up. 

The main other sound's the compass 

Of simple breeze and fleece drop. 

The forested areas are exquisite, dim and profound, 

In any case, I have guarantees to keep, 

Furthermore, miles to go before I rest, 

Furthermore, miles to go before I rest.