Whose cows these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To boff his Bessie in the snow.
My little horse must think me queer
To see me stop and call her dear,
And watches while I furtive make
My path approaching from the rear.
So happy to relieve the ache,
The craving only bovines slake,
I drop into a crumpled heap
Mid easy wind and downy flake.
The woods were lovely, dark and deep.
But I've a rendezvous to keep,
And miles to go before the sheep,
And miles to go before the sheep.
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