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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 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.
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