This is the farm-house where I walked the quarter-mile drive for 9 years.

I'm very tired; should be sleeping,

but had to put this here before I leave for Palm Desert:

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'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.
-Robert Frost-