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+##Birches
+*Robert Frost, 1874 - 1963*
+
+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.  Often you must have seen them
+
+Loaded with ice a sunny winter morning
+
+After a rain.  They click upon themselves
+
+As the breeze rises, and turn many-colored
+
+As the stir cracks and crazes their enamel.
+
+Soon the sun’s warmth makes them shed crystal shells
+
+Shattering and avalanching on the snow-crust--
+
+Such heaps of broken glass to sweep away
+
+You’d think the inner dome of heaven had fallen.
+
+They are dragged to the withered bracken by the load,
+
+And they seem not to break; though once they are bowed
+
+So low for long, they never right themselves:
+
+You may see their trunks arching in the woods
+
+Years afterwards, trailing their leaves on the ground
+
+Like girls on hands and knees that throw their hair
+
+Before them over their heads to dry in the sun.
+
+But I was going to say when Truth broke in
+
+With all her matter-of-fact about the ice-storm
+
+I should prefer to have some boy bend them
+
+As he went out and in to fetch the cows--
+
+Some boy too far from town to learn baseball,
+
+Whose only play was what he found himself,
+
+Summer or winter, and could play alone.
+
+One by one he subdued his father’s trees
+
+By riding them down over and over again
+
+Until he took the stiffness out of them,
+
+And not one but hung limp, not one was left
+
+For him to conquer.  He learned all there was
+
+To learn about not launching out too soon
+
+And so not carrying the tree away
+
+Clear to the ground.  He always kept his poise
+
+To the top branches, climbing carefully
+
+With the same pains you use to fill a cup
+
+Up to the brim, and even above the brim.
+
+Then he flung outward, feet first, with a swish,
+
+Kicking his way down through the air to the ground.
+
+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
+
+Where your face burns and tickles with the cobwebs
+
+Broken across it, and one eye is weeping
+
+From a twig’s having lashed across it open.
+
+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.  Earth’s the right place for love:
+
+I don’t know where it’s likely to go better.
+
+I’d like to go by climbing a birch tree,
+
+And climb black branches up a snow-white trunk
+
+Toward heaven, till the tree could bear no more,
+
+But dipped its top and set me down again.
+
+That would be good both going and coming back.
+
+One could do worse than be a swinger of birches.