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634

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.

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.

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[–] [deleted] • 1 pt

I've always like this. I like to think the narrator of this poem is what would have happened if the narrator of road not taken had in fact taken the well worn path and gone on with his life (like years later he's looking back at that same woods). I pretty sure that's not what frost intended but I think it's a fun idea.

[–] • 0 pt

This poem means more to me than I can put in words. My mom passed away when I was rather young but I remember her reciting this to me from memory. I’d like to get it tattooed on me, at least the last line.