seventy four

Into My Own

ONE of my wishes is that those dark trees,

So old and firm they scarcely show the breeze,

Were not, as t'were, the merest mask of gloom,

But stretched away unto the edge of doom.

I should not be withheld, but someday

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 should 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.

by Robert Frost