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.
England tasted the works of Robert Lee Frost before America as his works were published initially in England despite being an American Poet. He is highly regarded for his realistic depictions of rural life and his command of American colloquial speech which gifted him a Four time Pulitzer Prize winner for Poetry Frost became one of America’s rare “public literary figures, almost an artistic institution.” On July 22, 1961, Frost was named poet laureate of Vermont.