quinta-feira, 12 de novembro de 2015

Na Floresta



[Stopping by the Woods on a Snowy Evening]

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 walk before I sleep,
And miles to walk before I sleep.

Robert Frost, The Collected Poems