torsdag den 23. december 2010

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. 

(beklager de manglende julesange og alt det dér. kræver af en eller anden grund kæmpe kraftanstrengelse at blogge these days. kommer måske efter det senere i dag. men nu vil jeg altså bage finskbrød.)

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