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-
I can barely get through the first two lines of this poem before the tears begin to well up. I don’t cry easily but when it comes to Robert Frost I am transported back to my girlhood in Ogunquit, Maine. The photograph of the road in this blog was taken in Castine, in Eastern Maine in Hancock County. It is God’s country. You can literally get lost in these woods. I have many times. I can still hear the echo’s of my brother and sisters laughing and running ahead of me when I was left in charge of their care. Robert Frost was born in San Francisco but he adopted the New England area and New England adopted him. I know he softly wrote about that existence in his poems. I often reflect back fondly of my early childhood memories of discovering his work and how meaningful his words are to me then and now. Poetry can save a life. A poem can make a life. Minds can be changed and healed with a poets words. This poem in particular reminds me often as I reread it that we have many paths that we can take. We can only take one at a time to my knowledge. The unfamiliar can be daunting. But it is there where our dreams can lie. Waiting for us. How green was our valley to have this incredibly gifted poet on our planet. Even though I never knew him he has had a immense impact on my life. I would sit outside on the porch of our little bungalow house we called the “Sebring Cottage” and devour his words, my grandmothers laughter and her apple pies baking in the kitchen. I have taken the road less travelled. And it has made all the difference in my life.
Blessings,
Kate
