One could do worse than be a swinger of birches.
Before I built a wall I'd ask to know what I was walling in or walling out.
I dwell with a strangely aching heart In that vanished abode there far apart
Poetry is a way of taking life by the throat.
I end not far from my going forth By picking the faded blue Of the last remaining aster flower To carry again to you.
I do not see why I should eโer 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 โ Only more sure of all I thought was true.