In sleep, I die a little more
Than where I’d been the night before.
My heart, tho’ pounding in my chest,
Wanes each and ev’ry passing breath
For nothing done can now restore.

By day, I live a little less.
Time marches on. I only guess
I’m closer to a bitter end
As Time has never been my friend,
Tho’ much was wasted, I confess.

I pause, contrite, in deep lament
For useful energy— never spent,
Or opportunity— never taken;
Disappeared— left forsaken,
Wond’ring where my youth was sent?

Now, I could dwell and wonder why
In pity for my clouded eyes,
Or rise, take in, as chances wait
For open heart. It’s not too late
To live before my time to die!

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.