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's 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.

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
by Robert Frost

Yes, clearly they are not my words. The most I can take credit for is the photo of my pond and the inspiration that the view brought that incredible poem to mind.

I was warned that I must post more often and this may be cheating a bit, however, they are incredible words and I find them to fit so well with the waning days of winter out here.