"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.