Resources Profile - honeymoon

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 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.

It's a wonderful poem, do you agree?