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.