Book of the week

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
by Robert Frost

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.