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Birches by Robert Frost

Birches by Robert Frost

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Published by gumadinaresh
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Published by: gumadinaresh on Jan 06, 2011
Copyright:Attribution Non-commercial

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05/12/2014

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 Home <http://www.online-literature.com/> ** Author Index<http://www.online-literature.com/author_index.php> ** Shakespeare<http://www.online-literature.com/shakespeare/> ** The Bible<http://www.online-literature.com/bible/bible.php> ** Quotes<http://www.online-literature.com/quotes/quotations.php> ** Forums<http://www.online-literature.com/forums/> ** Books on CD<http://www.online-literature.com/cd/>Literature Network <http://www.online-literature.com>*>*Robert Frost<http://www.online-literature.com/frost/>*>*Birches<http://www.online-literature.com/frost/742/>BirchesSearch on this Page:------------------------------------------------------------------------When I see birches bend to left and rightAcross the lines of straighter darker trees,I like to think some boy's been swinging them.But swinging doesn't bend them down to stay.Ice-storms do that. Often you must have seen themLoaded with ice a sunny winter morningAfter a rain. They click upon themselvesAs the breeze rises, and turn many-coloredAs the stir cracks and crazes their enamel.Soon the sun's warmth makes them shed crystal shellsShattering and avalanching on the snow-crust--Such heaps of broken glass to sweep awayYou'd think the inner dome of heaven had fallen.They are dragged to the withered bracken by the load,And they seem not to break; though once they are bowedSo low for long, they never right themselves:You may see their trunks arching in the woodsYears afterwards, trailing their leaves on the groundLike girls on hands and knees that throw their hairBefore them over their heads to dry in the sun.But I was going to say when Truth broke inWith all her matter-of-fact about the ice-storm(Now am I free to be poetical?)I should prefer to have some boy bend themAs he went out and in to fetch the cows--Some boy too far from town to learn baseball,Whose only play was what he found himself,Summer or winter, and could play alone.One by one he subdued his father's treesBy riding them down over and over againUntil he took the stiffness out of them,And not one but hung limp, not one was leftFor him to conquer. He learned all there wasTo learn about not launching out too soonAnd so not carrying the tree awayClear to the ground. He always kept his poiseTo the top branches, climbing carefullyWith the same pains you use to fill a cupUp to the brim, and even above the brim.

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