If Love lives not, O God, what feel I so? And if Love lives, what thing and which is He? If Love is good, from where has come my woe? If it be bad, it's a wonder, thinks me, since every torment and adversity which comes from it savors of joys distinct and still I thirst, the more of it I drink. And if it's from my own desire I burn, what spring gives forth my wailing and complaint? If hurt pleases, why should my plaint return? I know not, nor why, in health, I grow faint. O live death! O strange hurt with Love's sweet taint, how might you fester in such quantity unless I give consent for it to be? If I consent, I wrongfully devote my heart to sorrow. Thus tossed, two and fro, quite rudderless, I sit within a boat in a sea which two winds must undergo; each blasts against its contrary echo. Alas! what strange malady have I got? I die from heat when cold, from cold when hot.
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 undergrown.
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 even 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
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