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.
>i’m getting old. i didn’t realize that because my friend rey keeps rubbing it to my face, but after my conversation with my friend ejie from california. as we were talking last saturday, he mentioned about responsibilities.
i know i’m getting old when my peers use the word responsibility as an everyday word.
it’s not really as bad as i thought it would be – getting old, i mean. it’s just that every birthday forces me to be more mature every year. it’s my yearly reminder that i shouldn’t watch cartoons this much, or spend so much time at the comics section of a bookstore… who am i kidding?