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INTO MY OWNOne of my wishes is that those dark trees,tSo old and firm they scarcely show the breeze,tWere not, as ’twere, the merest mask of gloom,tBut stretched away unto the edge of doom.tI should not be withheld but that some dayt Into their vastness I should steal away,tFearless of ever finding open land,tOr highway where the slow wheel pours the sand.tI do not see why I should e’er turn back,tOr those should not set forth upon my trackt To overtake me, who should miss me heretAnd long to know if still I held them dear.tThey would not find me changed from him they knew—tOnly more sure of all I thought was true.
