Two roads diverged in a wood,
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
They leave us so to the way we took,
As two in whom they were proved mistaken,
That we sit sometimes in the wayside nook,
With mischievous, vagrant, seraphic look,
And try if we cannot feel forsaken.
But I recognized death
With sorrow and dread,
And I hated and hate
The spoils of the dead.
Life’s not so short I care to keep
The unhappy days; I choose to sleep.