On the darkest evening of the year (winter solstice), a lone rider halts his horse beside a private forest:
'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.'
The forest owner lives safely in the village and cannot see the traveler trespassing in the tranquil silence, watching the flakes blanket the branches in immaculate white.