One of my wishes is that those trees,
so old and firm they scarcely show the breeze.
Where not as 'twere the  merest mark of gloom,
but stretched away, unto the edge of  doom.

I should not be withheld, but that some day,
into their vastness I might steal away.
Fearless of ever finding open land,
or the highway where the slow wheel pours the sand.

I don't know why I should ever turn back
or those 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.