Poem 12 Erasing Robert Frost

 Roads diverged in yellow wood,
I could not travel both
 long I stood
looked down one far
bent in the undergrowth;
Then the other, as fair,
it was grassy and wanted wear;
the passing there
that morning equally lay
trodden black.
if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages hence
roads diverged in a wood,
I took the one
less traveled.

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