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's 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.
...
I think if I don't, at least once before I die, ride a horse through the woods, it will have been a life wasted.
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The wife wants to make me do such a thing.
ReplyDeleteMaybe we can all pool together and form some sort of broke-dick goofy-looking posse!
I happen to have this book on horse camping...
ReplyDeleteI wonder if anybody guides horseback hunting/camping trips? The idea of packing out into the wilderness and shooting dinner just gives me the primate-shivvers.