My father gave me a small yellow book, Poems by Robert Frost, when I was 8 years old. The book was tiny and fit in the palm of my hand. My father read these poems to me each night for 20 nights until the book was completed. He told me to always keep it nearby as there were many life lessons in this tiny book. My father was right. I still carry it with me today.
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.