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
Violent end for shooter
Tougher penalties required against illegal food additives
Monks' radical moves in Tibet opposed
15 dead as train collides with taxi in India
Coca-Cola opens biggest bottling plant in China
US plane makes emergency landing after pilot rant about bomb
Afghan killings suspect: Recent life was struggle
Fake monks busted by Buddhist students
Students caught betting on sports
Soldiers in Mali seize power after attack on palace
Obama to stress security alliance in Seoul visit
Netizens go to court over 1 yuan trips
High winds warning for weekend
School shooting suspect 'planned to kill' again
Afghan Taliban say US must rebuild trust
Obama hits back in Russia 'hot mic' row
Parents of slain Florida teen criticize info leaks
First US Marines arrive in Australia
Satellite fueled up for launch
Panic over tsunami alert
China-New Zealand relationship 'best ever'
New media a powerful tool, says poll
Pandas show interest, but fail to mate at zoo
British PM under pressure in selling access row
Iran mulls venues for nuclear talks
New Zealand focuses on Eastern promise
Obama vows to pursue nuclear cuts with Russia
Japan deploys interceptors for launch
Online group buying to be regulated
That's no wolf, that's my Lady
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