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.

He's gone, and all our plans

   Are useless indeed.

We'll walk no more on Cotswold

   Where the sheep feed

   Quietly and take no heed.

 

His body that was so quick

   Is not as you

Knew it, on Severn river

   Under the blue

   Driving our small boat through.

 

You would not know him now ...

   But still he died

Nobly, so cover him over

   With violets of pride

   Purple from Severn side.

 

Cover him, cover him soon!

   And with thick-set

Masses of memoried flowers—

   Hide that red wet

   Thing I must somehow forget.