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's 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's 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.
R. L. Frost
--
╭─╮╭╮ ╭╮╮ ╭╮
│╰╯│╰╮╭╭╮│ │╭─╮╭ ╮│╰╮"At the touch of love everyone
╭╮││ ╯││││ │╭ │││││ ╯ becomes a poet."
╰─╯╰╰╯╰─│╰╯╯╰╰╯╰╰╯╰╰╯ -- Plato
───── ╰─╯ ─────────── http://darkshadows.org/~skyhawk ─
--
※ 發信站: 批踢踢實業坊(ptt.twbbs.org)
◆ From: 61.216.20.113