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Robert Frost
Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening
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.
The Road Not Taken
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And
looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth.
Then took the other, as just as
fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that, the
passing there
Had worn them really about the same.
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no
step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted
if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence;
Two
roads diverged in a yellow wood, and I--
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
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