Thursday, January 21, 2016


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.

For a wonderful reading of this poem, complete with sound
affects, go to this link: http://youtube/nie5dGD6OQA.  Sorry, I
don't know how to link this, so you will have to copy/paste.

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