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.

       -- Robert Frost


(And I too have miles to go before
I sleep....many, but It does not mean
I have not stopped to check my direction
and see where I have been.  To a blues
musician you might be reminded of the
proverbial crossroads that a man comes
to in some point of his life.)