Thursday, March 01, 2012

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.

Robert Frost


Laurent said...


catherine said...


Gilbert Pinna, le blog graphique said...

Blue Bruegel.

Bruce Barone said...


by land by air by sea said...

i've come back to look again
and recite word for word
a poem we all learnt at one time or another in america.

it is a beautiful post
full of mystery this photograph
and poetry in itself.
just gorgeous this.

gésbi said...

Une très belle photo: souvenirs en mouvement...