A yellow wood, in two roads, diverged -
sorry -
I could not travel, be one traveler,
looked as far as I could, long I stood -
and
down one, both,
where bent in the undergrowth
to it, the other, just as fair,
took as having about the same wear,
and - passing there
(perhaps the better claim)
because it was grassy
and worn -
and wanted -
Though as for that
the morning lay trodden black
for another day -
had them really, and that both equally,
I doubted, knowing no step -
should I ever come back?
Oh, I kept the first
in leaves.
Then if I be telling this,
how the way leads in a wood,
traveled by
with a sigh
ages and ages hence
and had -
shall -
yet somewhere
all the difference
diverged
and I
took one less,
and that has made
two roads
on I
to way.
(All words clept from Robert Frost's "The Road Not Taken")
