Birches When I see birches bend to left and right Across the lines of straighter darker trees, I like to think some boy’s been swinging them. But swinging doesn’t bend them down to stay. Ice-storms do that. Often you must have seen them Loaded with ice a sunny winter morning After a rain. They sparkled like the stars. I had to go back to the woods. I told Myself I should be glad to be there. All the Splendor of early spring was in the air. But something had to be done. I could not be Like wild things. I could not be made to fit. I could not be free, caught here in the woods, Trapped with the fear of how lonely I had become.

I want to go back to those days again.

I’d like to think that some boy’s been swinging them. I’d like to think that the boy I once was Is still out there, in the pine trees and sunlight. But I know that I must go on, move on, and leave These trees behind, and all this worry.

All the sweet peace is gone, and the roots are reclaiming What’s left and all the unfound sun is gone. I cannot stay, but still I’d like to return. To a world that is free and blue like the skies. In all the nonsense of the night.

So I take a deep breath, and I say to myself: I must go back to those trees and all that sun, Even if I must go alone.

• Robert Frost