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Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,               Out, out, brief candle!
And sorry I could not travel both                  Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player
And be one traveler, long I stood                  That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And looked down one as far as I could              And then is heard no more; it is a tale
To where it bent in the undergrowth.               Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
                                                   Signifying nothing
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,               If Shakespeare had been born  
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;             And bred on a barren 
Though as for that the passing there               And unvisited rock in the ocean 
Had worn them really about the same.               His mighty intellect would have 
                                                   Had no outside material to work with, 
And both that morning equally lay                  And could have invented none;
In leaves no step had trodden black.               And no outside influences, teachings, moldings, 
Oh, I kept the first for another day!              Persuasions, inspirations, of a valuable sort,
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,               And could have invented none;
I doubted if I should ever come back.              And so Shakespeare would have produced nothing.

I shall be telling this with a sigh                I am about to take my last voyage,
Somewhere ages and ages hence:                     A great leap in the dark.
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I--
I took the one less traveled by,                   Know thyself.
And that has made all the difference.

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