"Whose woods are these, 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 coldest season of the year.
He gives his harness bell a shake.
To ask if there is some mistake
The only sounds the sweep
of easy icy and downy flake.
These 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."
-Walking through woods on a snowy evening, by Robert Frost.
[Merry Christmas Guys.]