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.
** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** **
* Frosted trees. A poem by Robert Frost.
Wintery and wonderful.
* You can click on each picture and be taken to my flickr page, where you can click on the "all sizes" tab above the picture and see these bigger, in all their frosty glory; if you like.
* Have you seen this book?
I highly recommend it's loveliness and simplicity.
I hope your moments each have a bit of sunshine,
love, e