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