Stopping By the Woods

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.



John, Carson, and I went for a walk in the snowy woods this morning. I couldn't help but to recall one of my favorite Robert Frost poems. "Stopping By the Woods."
The snow was blowing off of the trees and glistening in the air like glitter. John said that it looked like glitter from angels' wings. I would have to agree with him.