Whose ‘hood is this, I think I know.
It’s Pigtown or Washington Village, though;
You will not see me stopping here
To watch my ‘hood fill up with snow. My little dog must think it queer
To stop without a friend’s house near
Between the ‘hood and frozen creek
The darkest evening of the year. He gives his collar bells a shake
To ask if there's some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake. The ‘hood is lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
*With apologies to Robert Frost