Один из любимых стихов.


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. 


R.Frost

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