Whose woods these are I think I know. His house is in the village, though; He will not see me stopping here… — Robert Frost

Love at the lips was touch

As sweet as I could bear;

And once that seemed too much;

I lived on air

We've looked and looked, but after all where are we?

Do we know any better where we are,

And how it stands between the night tonight

And a man with a smoky lantern chimney?

How different from the way it ever stood?

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.