Whose dogge this is I think I know . . .

Stopping By Woods On a Grousy Evening

Whose dogge this is I think I know.
His owner lives in Buffalo;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his dogge run to and fro.
My little Kate must think it queer
To hunt without a setter near
Between the woods and marshy brake
The grousiest evening of the year.
She gives her wispy head a shake
To ask if there is some mistake
The only other sound's the beep
Of Sonic collar that does not slake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have grouse and cock to reap,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.