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.
After several laboring jobs and a period of farming in New England, San Francisco-born Robert Frost settled permanently on a farm in New Hampshire. Although he never graduated from college, he won twenty-five honorary degrees, and was the only poet to receive four Pulitzer Prizes. A mountain in Vermont is named after him.
