Yesterday, I walked by those silent woods,
Where leaves turn yellow and upon the breeze do dance.
O'er by his crossroads, dear, Mr. Frost still stood.
Down each way, once more he cast his glance,
And I wonder if he yet holds his same old stance.

He had claimed that fateful morn'.
That each way lay roughly the same
But truly, of the eye is deception borne.
For what does it matter if one held the better claim?
If at the journey's end, you're left with lonesome shame?

For both those paths thou stand before
Are meaningless if trodden alone.
For where is that lover whom you adore?
The one who grants daily life to all you own
And within those silent moments, your love had grown.

In all my days, the good and the bad
It never was the choice of path we strode.
That granted me reason to be glad.
But those precious times with her that peacefully flowed
Unburdening me of all my fear and heavy load.

So please, I beg.

Finally close your eyes and trust your heart.
To find your lover's grasp within your palm.
A touch of divinity, which warmth imparts,
Even that which inspired the psalms
And within our hearts will usher the calm.

And this, dear Mr. Frost
Ye shall tell with a sigh.
Somewhere ages and ages hence:

That within your palm,
True love ye found, and that—
That, and not the winding path,
Did make all the difference.