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.
(My father was very good at drawing and painting. He took an art class when I was in junior high school and one of the first assignments to all the students in the class was to paint a picture that was conjured in their minds from reading the poem "Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening". The picture at the top of this page is a photo of the picture my father painted. It was his interpretation of the poem. It was probably painted about 1969. It has always been one of my favorite pictures that my father painted).