Birches

Birches. From Mountain Interval. , 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. ,