The Road Not Taken
by Robert Frost
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Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
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And sorry I could not travel both
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And be one traveler, long I stood
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And looked down one as far as I could
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To where it bent in the undergrowth;
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Then took the other, as just as fair,
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And having perhaps the better claim,
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Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
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Though as for that the passing there
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Had worn them really about the same,
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And both that morning equally lay
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In leaves no step had trodden black.
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Oh, I kept the first for another day!
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Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
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I doubted if I should ever come back.
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I shall be telling this with a sigh
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Somewhere ages and ages hence:
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Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
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I took the one less traveled by,
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And that has made all the difference.
I just re-read The Road Not Taken, and then an exchange between Frost and Edward Thomas, for whom he probably wrote the poem, and realised that I had it wrong all this time.
- Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
- I took the one less traveled by,
- And that has made all the difference.
The poem is a mocking one. There is no difference, except for that which we manufacture. Looking back we tell ourselves that it was our choices that made the difference, that we shaped our destiny. But Frost doesn’t think so. Maybe Frost is wrong, but still it comes as a shock to finally realise that those words in which I have taken great comfort, that have meant much to me, meant in fact quite the opposite.
- Though as for that the passing there
- Had worn them really about the same,
But then it’s a relief too, to think that it doesn’t really matter which path we take.
