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;
"Hope" is the thing with feathers -
That perches in the soul -
And sings the tune without the words -
And never stops - at all -
Hold fast to dreams
For if dreams die
Life is a broken-winged bird
That cannot fly.
You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may trod me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I'll rise.
Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I've tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.