birches

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“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.”

From a poem I had to memorize in English class at Gatlinburg-Pittman High School. Thank you, Mrs. Sue Cox.

Today is the birth date of its author: poet Robert Frost, born in 1874.

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