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Saturday, August 29, 2009

Tribute to My idle in Poetry-- Robert Frost

Stepping By the Woods On a Snowy Evening ---

Whose woods there 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 the 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 sm promise to keep
and miles to go before I sleep
and miles to go before I sleep...................