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.
This was Frost's favourite poem, he termed it "my best bid for remembrance". In John Ciardi's account, one night Frost "had sat down after supper to work at a long piece of blank verse. The piece never worked out, but Mr. Frost found himself so absorbed in it that, when next he looked up, dawn was at the window. He rose, crossed to the window, stood looking out for a few minutes, and then it was that "Stopping by the Woods" suddenly 'just came', so that all he had to do was cross the room and write it down."