Stopping By Weeds on a Frosty Evening

Whose weeds these are I think I know,
His house is mine own, although
I cannot see it, stopping here
For year by year, these damn weeds grow

My little child must think it queer
To look, not see the farmhouse near
Between the weeds and icy lake,
The coldest workday of the year

He gives his little hands a shake
To see if I will let him take
A break from our sworn job to keep
Of clearing out with heavy rake

The weeds are hell, both dark and deep,
But I have premises to keep,
And weeds to hoe before I reap,
And weeds to hoe before I reap.