A Snowy Morning

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.