Whose woods these are I think I know. His house is in the village though;He will not see me stopping hereTo watch his woods fill up with snow. My little horse must think it queerTo stop without a farmhouse nearBetween the woods and frozen lakeThe darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shakeTo ask if there is some mistake. The only other sound’s the sweepf easy wind and downy f lake. 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. Перевод Григория Дашевского. kommersant.ru
2013-10-4 06:56