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.

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.

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.

'I can repeat the very words you were saying: 'Three foggy mornings and one rainy day Will rot the best birch fence a man can build.' Think of it, talk like th…

Separate we come, and separate we go, And this be it known, is all that we know.

We shall not meet again: over the wave Our ways divide, and yours is straight and endless - But mine is short and crooked to the grave: Yet what of these dark …

I love little pussy, her coat is so warm; And if I don't hurt her she'll do me no harm.