I don't know how it happened, but suddenly I found myself reading poetry. And it's not that I dislike poetry, but that after reading dozens of poems about different things, my brain is swirling around and around and my eyes are swimming and I think maybe I actually dislike poetry.
At any rate, I know I don't like Robert Frost, yet for the first time ever, I like this poem. Except, I don't really like it, it's more that it struck me as meaning something. For once. Ugh.
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.
