INTO MY OWN

INTO MY OWN

Jorges Luis Borges

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 onto the edge of doom.

i should not be withheld but that someday

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 there

and long to know if still i held them dear.

they should not find me changed from him they knew—

only more sure of all i thought was ture.

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