Robert Frost · USA · 1916
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 someday 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 · USA · 1916
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 someday 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.
“Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,…”
I came to a fork in an autumn forest — two roads going in different directions — and wished I could take both. I stood there a long time looking down one path. I chose the other, telling myself it was less worn, more adventurous. But honestly? They looked about the same.
“Then took the other, as just as fair,…”
I told myself I''d come back and take the other road someday — but I knew that was probably a lie. Life doesn''t give you do-overs like that.
“And both that morning equally lay…”
Someday, looking back, I''ll tell the story differently: "I took the road less traveled, and that changed everything." But the truth is, I just picked one. And we always rewrite our choices into destiny afterward.
“I shall be telling this someday…”
Someday, looking back, I''ll tell the story differently: "I took the road less traveled, and that changed everything." But the truth is, I just picked one. And we always rewrite our choices into destiny afterward.
Why this poem matters
Widely misread as a celebration of individualism, Frost actually wrote this mocking a friend who always regretted not taking different paths on their walks. It's about how we romanticize choices in hindsight.