[This poem is written by the American poet Robert Frost. He was born in San Francisco, California, on 26 March 1874. He died on 29 January, 1963 in Boston, following a cancer operation. Frost used in his poetry, the language of everyday life and depicted scenes from the common man's experiences and from country life. He received many honours for his poetry.]

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

  Woods in Snow  
  Robert Frost  
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