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| 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. |
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| 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. |
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| 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. |
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| 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. |
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| ~ Robert Frost ~ |
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