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Into My Own
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 th
eedge 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 the knew--
Only more sure of all I though was true.
October
O hushed October morning mild,
Thy leaves have ripened
to the fall;
Tomorrow's wind, if it be wild,
Should waste them all.
The crows above the forest call;
Tomorrow
they may form and go.
O hushed October morning mild,
Begin the hours of this day slow.
Make the day seem to us less
brief.
Hearts not averse to being beguiled,
Beguile us in the way you know.
Release one leaf at break of day;
At
noon release another leaf;
one from our trees, one far away.
Retard the sun with gentle mist;
Enchant the land with
amethyst.
Slow, slow!
For the grapes' sake, if the were all,
Whose leaves already are burnt with frost,
Whose
clustered fruit must else be lost--
For the grapes' sake along the all.
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