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.


Robert Frost (via observando)

somethingwell:

wood works I by clint reid


betype:

Steel  / Oak beer: Designed by Alson Known As

I want my secrets back.
I want my heart back.
I want all the words I
ever wasted on you
back.

You don’t deserve them.

110/365 by (DS)