Stopping by the woods…

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…on a snowy evening, with Mr. Robert Frost ~ 1923
American farmer/philosopher/poet

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.

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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.

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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.

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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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Until tomorrow ~ may all your travels be snowy ~ God willing,

Woodswoman

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