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 rifle must think it queer
To stop without a range near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

She gives her bandoleer 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.

>And to prove I'm a hack-fraud that didn't come up with most of this, here's my favorite rendition of the original: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PK3ac1WI9fM [Embed]

>thank god this thread will die and no one will notice the terrible plagiarism