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.

.

That's what it was like out in the woods, like Narnia, always snowing but never Christmas. It even had the lamp (well, several of them). I always follow the road less traveled by. Or, you know, if they happen to be equally traversed I go left.