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's 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'S 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.