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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.

Date: 2009-05-12 05:05 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile] lestp.livejournal.com
отличное стихотворение, но немножко здесь затертое
для англоязычных оно по моему навроде Буря мглою небо кроет

Date: 2009-05-12 05:25 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile] arpad.livejournal.com
Ага.

One of advantages of being foreign is the opportunity of getting a fresh impression from customary things.
Edited Date: 2009-05-12 05:26 am (UTC)

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