INTO MY OWN – Poetry, by Robert Frost

intomy.1He wrote poems whose philosophical dimensions transcend any region. Although his verse forms are traditional, he was a pioneer in the interplay of rhythm and meter. Robert Frost, born San Francisco (Mar. 26, 1874), and dead Boston (Jan. 29, 1963). At the age of 38, he sold the farm moving with his family to England, where he could devote himself entirely to writing. He was one of America’s leading 20th-century poets. His poetry is traditional and experimental, regional and universal. INTO MY OWNOne 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 th eedge 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 the knew, only more sure of all I thought was true.


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