Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening

by Robert Frost

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.

This is one of my favorite Frost poems. It's kind of ironic - snowy evening, Frost. Corny, I know. Still one of my favorites.
It snowed today, and as I was walking home tonight, in the dark woods of Manhattan, this poem kept running through my mind. Except that there were a couple of lines I couldn't remember. So I had to come home and look them up. And share the sentiment with the world.
I especially like the last stanza; it so ably summarizes how I feel a large majority of the time. But I did some homework tonight (never enough, but some. The pile never goes away.), so maybe I'm closer to sleep than Frost says.