Vermont

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