A Boy's Willby Robert Frost

Ghost House

Into My Own

The youth is persuaded that he will be rather more than less himself for having forsworn the world.

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 thought was true.