Sunday, November 2, 2014

Into My Own

One of my wishes is those dark trees,
So old and so firm the scarcely show the breeze,
Were not, as 'twere, the merest mask of gloom,
But stretched away into the edge of doom.

I should not be withheld but that some day,
Into their vastness I should steal away,
Fearless of ever finding open land,
Or highway where the slow wheel pours the sand.

I do not see why I should e'er turn back,
Or those should not set forth upon my track
To overtake me, who miss me here
And long to know if still I held them dear.

They would not find me changed from him they knew-
Only more sure of all I thought was true.

-Robert Frost