(With apologies to 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 bury a negro in the snow. My little horse must think it queer To stop without a farmhouse near Between the woods and frozen lake There must be hundreds buried here. He gives his harness bells a shake To ask if there is some mistake. Just two more niggers on the heap To lay beneath the downy flake. The woods are lovely, dark and deep, But I have promises to keep, To do my part for mankind's sake. And miles to go before I sleep, And miles to go before I sleep.