| When I see birches bend to left and right |
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| Across the lines of straighter darker trees, |
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| I like to think some boy's been swinging them. |
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| But swinging doesn't bend them down to stay. |
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| As ice storms do. Often you must have seen them |
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| Loaded with ice a sunny winter morning |
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| After a rain. They click upon themselves |
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| As the breeze rises, and turn many-coloured |
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| As the stir cracks and crazes their enamel. |
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| Soon the sun's warmth makes them shed crystal shells |
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| Shattering and avalanching on the snow-crust |
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| Such heaps of broken glass to sweep away |
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| You'd think the inner dome of heaven had fallen. |
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| They are dragged to the withered bracken by the load, |
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| And they seem not to break; though once they are bowed |
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| So low for long, they never right themselves: |
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| You may see their trunks arching in the woods |
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| Years afterwards, trailing their leaves on the ground, |
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| Like girls on hands and knees that throw their hair |
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| Before them over their heads to dry in the sun. |
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| But I was going to say when Truth broke in |
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| With all her matter-of-fact about the ice-storm, |
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| I should prefer to have some boy bend them |
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| As he went out and in to fetch the cows-- |
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| Some boy too far from town to learn baseball, |
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| Whose only play was what he found himself, |
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| Summer or winter, and could play alone. |
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| One by one he subdued his father's trees |
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| By riding them down over and over again |
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| Until he took the stiffness out of them, |
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| And not one but hung limp, not one was left |
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| For him to conquer. He learned all there was |
[32-33] |
| To learn about not launching out too soon |
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| And so not carrying the tree away |
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| Clear to the ground. He always kept his poise |
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| To the top branches, climbing carefully |
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| With the same pains you use to fill a cup |
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| Up to the brim, and even above the brim. |
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| Then he flung outward, feet first, with a swish, |
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| Kicking his way down through the air to the ground. |
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| So was I once myself a swinger of birches. |
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| And so I dream of going back to be. |
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| It's when I'm weary of considerations, |
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| And life is too much like a pathless wood |
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| Where your face burns and tickles with the cobwebs |
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| Broken across it, and one eye is weeping |
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| From a twig's having lashed across it open. |
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| I'd like to get away from earth awhile |
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| And then come back to it and begin over. |
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| May no fate willfully misunderstand me |
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| And half grant what I wish and snatch me away |
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| Not to return. Earth's the right place for love: |
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| I don't know where it's likely to go better. |
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| I'd like to go by climbing a birch tree |
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| And climb black branches up a snow-white trunk |
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| Toward heaven, till the tree could bear no more, |
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| But dipped its top and set me down again. |
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| That would be good both going and coming back. |
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| One could do worse than be a swinger of birches. |
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