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 the edge 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 they knew— Only more sure of all I thought was true.SourceThe script ran 0.001 seconds.
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