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 farmouse 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.

(I'm not a connoisseur of poetry. Except a dash of Odgen Nash, I've never really delved into the more profound verses of poets. But I stumbled upon this one when I was casually flipping through an old school poetry book. For the first time, I could relate to this poem. There is some connection, almost as if Mr. Frost is telling me these words personally. Call me cliched, but the hint of any connection with Literature whatsoever has now raised my hopes of perhaps getting some inspiration to perform better in my OE paper!)