a lost poem. . . lost to me

 

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 someday

Into their vastness I should steal away,

Fearless of ever finding open land

Or highwhere the slow wheel purs the sand.

 

I should not see why I should 'ere turn back

Or those 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 would not find me changed from him they knew

Only more sure of all I thought was true.

 

                                                -Robert Frost