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 As ice-storms do.

So was I once myself a swinger of birches. And so I dream of going back to be. It's when I'm weary of considerations, And life is too much like a pathless wood.

I'd like to get away from earth awhile And then come back to it and begin over. Earth's the right place for love: I don't know where it's likely to go better.