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 should be pulled that way, I thought, but I can’t do it; no one can.

I’d like to get away from earth awhile And then come back to it and begin over. May no fate willfully misunderstand me And half grant what I wish and snatch me away

Not to return. Awareness is way too much. I want to be a little boy again And swing my birches away from the sun. I’d rather feel the warmth of a sunbeam Than know I’m still not free to let it ride.

So let me hold this thought; I want to find The boy who made those shrieking birches bend As he swung with full abandon to the ground, And feel—just feel—those big earth-covered arms Swaggering over to rescue me from that folly.

• Robert Frost