Robert Frost (1874–1963). A Boy’s Will. 1915.
1. Into My Own
O
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.
Into their vastness I should steal away,
Fearless of ever finding open land,
Or highway where the slow wheel pours the sand.
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.
Only more sure of all I thought was true.