Beneath the earth’s skin the muscles stir, the bones awake,
She stretches ,yawns and breathes .
And all about her yearns to break out and sing the sun’s song to the trees.
November was soft and gentle.The shorter evenings were welcomed with log fires and candles as the world curled up for another season of sleep and quiet dark rest.I hoped for snow once more . Once more no snow came, nor frost ,all storms were yet to come .
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.