Stopping by woods on a snowy evening poem

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 farm house 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, deep,
But I have promise to keep
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.