Now I out walking
The world desert,
And my shoe and my stocking
Do me no hurt.
I leave behind
Good friends in town.
Let them get well-wined
And go lie down.
Don't think I leave
For the outer dark
Like Adam and Eve
Put out of the Park.
Forget the myth.
There is no one I
Am put out with
Or put out by.
Unless I'm wrong
I but obey
The urge of a song:
I'm—bound—away!
And I may return
If dissatisfied
With what I learn
From having died.
by
Robert Frost
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.
by
Robert Frost
