Into My Own

I worked at the library yesterday, luxuriating in the air-conditioned coolness. It seems that many people had this same idea, so after I sat down at the last open table, I gathered up the books that had been left there, ready to return them for reshelving. The Collected Poems of Robert Frost was on top of the pile, and I sat down again to look through the book. It fell open to this poem, which seemed a special happy chance to me. Wishing you a good weekend, filled with poetry, beauty, and a happy chance or two. 

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 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 though was true.

~ Robert Frost