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
Can’t say the same?
Spring Airlines offers reduced tickets to Japan
A monarch for his people
Burden of proof?
Kennedy cousin denied parole for killing girl in 1975
Ban's Gangnam Style day with rapper
Shenzhen Metro disruption leads to calls to ban Wi-Fi devices on subways
Striking distance?
Underage interns found working at Foxconn factory
Rarest of whales washes up in NZ
Polite society?
Guangzhou considers plastic surgery ban for minors
Do or die: Final campaign day dawns
Storm strands tourists at Great Wall, killing 3
Not in her league?
Cardinal rule?
Footwear fumble sees PM falling head over heels
Coast guard actions 'worrisome'
A bird? A plane? No, a Wingsuit champion
China lodges protest over Dalai Lama's Japan visit
Susan Boyle's rise to fame tempered by reality
Man's passion documents bicycle culture
Cold weather moves in to northern, eastern regions
Cell phones pinpoint locations
Mo Yan pens Nobel success story
Altitude illness victim's parents say goodbye
Grad school graduates applying for menial jobs
Savile victims allege pedophile ring
Passengers to surf Web in the sky
Voters finally cast their ballots in cliffhanger presidential race
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