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, The Road Not taken
The time has almost come to leave the rat-race behind and head for the woods. I’ve already hugged a number of dear friends, knowing it will be many months before I am again in London to see them. It is bittersweet, almost melancholy. An exciting time ahead comes at the cost of a comfortable and beloved home, people, routine, and surrounding. Four days from the airport I feel very much at a junction, one road less traveled and uncertain, and the other safe, predictable and happy. I wonder if Frost regretted his choice? Or was it his salvation? I suppose there is only one way to find out.
