Into My Own
One of my wishes is that those dark trees,
So old and firm they scarcely show the breeze,
Were not, as 'twere, the merest mask of gloom,
But stretched away unto 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 that should not set forth upon my track
To overtake me, who should miss me here
and long to know if I still held them dear.
They should not find me changed from him they knew
Only more sure of all that I thought was true.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment