Stopping by the woods on a Snowy Evening

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.

-Robert Frost