By Robert FrostWhen I see birches bend to left and rightAcross the lines of straighter darker trees,I like to think some boy's been swinging them.
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.
Then he flung outward, feet first, with a swish,
Kicking his way down through the air to the ground.
May no fate willfully misunderstand me
And half grant what I wish and snat...
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