Whose garage this is I think I know.
His mind is focused elsewhere though;
He will not see me stopping here
As he curses at the snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a tavern near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The coldest morning 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 snow shovel and downy flake.
The drive is lovely, long and steep.
The dude has promises to keep,
And drifts to shovel before he sleeps,
And drifts to shovel before he sleeps.