The road mistaken

Dearest, this is not the end:
Death received us long ago.
Where two roads crossed in the snow,
we looked round each deceiving bend;
where others trod we feared to go.
It was then we chose to die:
This is not the end.

Wise too late, I now know why
we, still clad in flesh, are shades,
wandering in wintry glades,
lost beneath a starless sky.
The sun is fallen; Heaven fades.
If we sleep not, though night is all,
I now know why.

Long we stood, but now we fall
in a desert cold and hoar,
bend the knee to rise no more.
When we heard that valiant call,
mistaking it for horns of war,
we fled down this ill-travelled road.
Now we fall. 

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