INTO MY OWN

One of my wishes is that those dark trees,
So old and firm theye scarcely show the breeze,
Were not, as 'twere, the merest mask of doom,
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 o ever finding open land,
Or highway where the slow wheel pours 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.

Robert Frost


He speaks to my soul on occasion~