TWO roads diverged in a yellow wood,
                                    And sorry I could not travel both
                                    And be one traveler, long I stood
                                    And looked down one as far as I could
                                    To where it bent in the undergrowth;

                                    Then took the other, as just as fair,
                                    And having perhaps the better claim,
                                    Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
                                    Though as for that the passing there
                                    Had worn them really about the same,

                                    And both that morning equally lay
                                    In leaves no step had trodden black.
                                    Oh, I kept the first for another day!
                                    Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
                                    I doubted if I should ever come back.

                                    I shall be telling this with a sigh
                                    Somewhere ages and ages hence:
                                    Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
                                    I took the one less traveled by,
                                    And that has made all the difference.

                                                      — Robert Frost, 1916