 BIRCHES By Robert Frost When I see birches bend to left and right across the lines of straighter darker trees, I like to think some boys have been swinging them. But swinging doesn't bend them down to stay. Ice storms do that. Often you must have seen them, loaded with ice a sunny winter morning after a rain. They click upon themselves as the breeze rises, and turn many colored as the stir cracks and crazes their enamel. Soon the sun's warmth makes them shed crystal shells shattering and avalanching on the snow-crust such heaps of broken glass to sweep away. You'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 bowed so low for long, they never right themselves. You may see their trunks arching in the woods years afterwards, trailing their leaves on the ground, like girls on hands and knees that throw their hair before them over their heads to dry in the sun. But I was going to say when truth broke in with all her matter of fact about the ice storm. Now am I free to be poetical? I should prefer to have some boy bend them, as 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 trees, by riding them down over and over again until he took the stiffness out of them. And not one but hung limp, not one was left for him to conquer. He learned all there was to learn about not launching out too soon and not carrying the tree away clear to the ground. He always kept his poise to the top branches, climbing carefully with the same pains you used to fill a cup up to the brim, and even above the brim. Then he flung outward, feet first with a swish, kicking his way down through the air to the ground. So was I once myself a swinger of birches, and so I dream of going back to be. It's when I'm weary of considerations, and life is too much like a pathless wood, where your face burns and tickles with the cobwebs broken across it, and one eye is weeping from a twigs having lashed across it open. I'd like to get away from earth a while, and then come back to it and begin over. May no fate willfully misunderstand me, and half-grant what I wish, and snatch me away not to return. Earth's the right place for love. I don't know where it's likely to go better. I'd like to go by climbing a birch tree and climb black branches up a snow-white trunk towards heaven till the tree could bear no more, but dipped its top and set me down again. That would be good, both going and coming back. One could do worse than be a swinger of birches. End of Birches by Robert Frost. This recording is in the public domain. Read by Alan Davis Drake. Birches by Robert Frost. Read for LibriVox.org by Adrian Levitsky. When I see birches bend to left and right across the lines of straighter darker trees, I like to think some boys been swinging them. But swinging doesn't bend them down to stay. Ice storms do that. Often you must have seen them loaded with ice a sunny winter morning after a rain. They click upon themselves as the breeze rises and turn many-coloured as the stir-cracks and crazes their enamel. Soon the sun's warmth makes them shed crystal shells, shattering and avalanching on the snow-crust. Such heaps of broken glass to sweep away you'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 bowed so low for long, they never ride themselves. You may see their trunks arching in the woods years afterwards, trailing their leaves on the ground like girls on hands and knees that throw their hair before them over their heads to dry in the sun. But I was going to say when truth broke in with all her matter of fact about the ice storm. Now am I free to be poetical? I should prefer to have some boy bend them as 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 trees by riding them down over and over again until he took the stiffness out of them. And not one, but hung limp. Not one was left for him to conquer. He learned all there was to learn about not launching out too soon, and so not carrying the tree away clear to the ground. He always kept his poise to the top branches, climbing carefully with the same pains he used to fill a cup up to the brim, and even above the brim. Then he flung outward, feet first with a swish, kicking his way down through the air to the ground. So was I once myself a swinger of birches, and so I dream of going back to be. It's when I'm wary of considerations, and life is too much like a pathless wood where your face burns and tickles with the cobwebs broken across it, and one eye is weeping from a twigs having lashed across it open. I'd like to get away from earth a while, and then come back to it and begin over. May no fate willfully misunderstand me, and have grant what I wish and snatch me away not to return. Earth's the right place for love. I don't know where it's likely to go better. I'd like to go by climbing a birch tree, and climb black branches of a snow-white trunk toward heaven, till the tree could bear no more, but dip-dip its top and set me down again. That would be good both going and coming back. One could do worse than be a swinger of birches. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Birches by Robert Frost. Read for LibriVox.org by Bill Mosley. When I see birches bend to left and ride across the lines of straighter darker trees, I like to think some boys been swinging them, but swinging doesn't bend them down to stay. Ice storms do that. Often you must have seen them loaded with ice a sunny winter morning after a rain. They click upon themselves as the breeze rises and turn many colored as the stirr cracks and crazes their enamel. Soon the sun's warmth makes them shed crystal-less shells shattering and advancing on the snowcrust. Such heaps of broken glass to sweep away, you'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 bowed so low for long, they never write themselves. You may see their trunks arching in the woods, years afterwards trailing their leaves on the ground like girls on hands and knees that throw their hair before them over their heads to dry in the sun. But I was going to say when truth broke in with all her matter of fact about the ice storm. Now am I free to be poetical. I should prefer to have some boy bend them as he went out, and Ian defetched 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 trees by riding them down over and over again until he took the stiffness out of them and not one but hung limp. Not one was left for him to conquer. He learned all there was to learn about not launching out too soon, and so not carry the tree away clear to the ground. He always kept his poise to the top branches climbing carefully with the same pains you'd use to fill a cup up to the brim and even above the brim. Then he flung outward feet first with a swish kicking his way down through the air to the ground. So was I once myself, a swinger of birches, and so I dream of going back to be. It's when I'm weary of considerations and life is too much like a pathless wood where your face burns and tickles with the cobwebs broken across it, and one eye is weeping from a twigs having lashed across it open. I'd like to get away from earth a while and then come back to it and begin over. May no fate willfully misunderstand me in half grant what I wish and snatch me away not to return. Earth's the right place for love. I don't know where it's likely to go better. I'd like to go by climbing a birch tree and climb black branches up a snow white trunk toward heaven till the tree could bear no more but dipped its top and set me down again. That would be good both going and coming back. One could do worse and be a swinger of birches end of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Often you must have seen them loaded with ice a sunny winter morning after a rain. They click upon themselves as the breeze rises and turn many colored as the stir cracks and crazes their enamel. Soon the sun's warmth makes them shed crystal shells shattering and avalanching on the snow crust. Such heaps of broken glass to sweep away you'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 bodes so low for long they never write themselves. You may see their trunks arching in the woods years afterwards trailing their leaves on the ground like girls on hands and knees that throw their hair before them over their heads to dry in the sun. But I was going to say when truth broke in with all her matter effect about the ice storm now am I free to be political. I should prefer to have some boy bend them as 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 trees by writing them down over and over again until he took the stiffness out of them and not one hung limp not one was left for him to conquer. He learned all there was to learn about not launching out too soon and so not carrying the tree away clear to the ground. He always kept his poise to the top branches climbing carefully with the same pains you use to fill a cup up to the brim and even above the brim. Then he flung outward feet first with a swish kicking his way down through the air to the ground. So as I once myself a swinger of birches and so I dream of going back to be. It's when I'm wary of considerations and life is too much like a pathless wood where your face burns and tickles with the cobwebs broken across it and when I is weeping from a twigs having lashed across it open I'd like to get away from earth a while and then come back to it and begin over. May no fate willfully misunderstand me and half grant what I wish and snatch me away not to return earth's the right place for love. I don't know where it's likely to go better. I'd like to go by climbing a birch tree and climb black branches up a snow white trunk toward heaven till the tree could bear no more but dipped its top and set me down again. That would be good both going and coming back. One could do worse than be a swinger of birches. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Birches by Robert Frost. Read for LibriVox.org by Darcy Smitenar. When I see birches bend to left and right across the lines of straighter darker trees I like to think some boys been swinging them but swinging doesn't bend them down to stay. Ice storms do that. Often you must have seen them loaded with ice a sunny winter morning after a rain. They click upon themselves as breeze rises and turn many colored as the stir cracks and crazes their enamel. Soon the sun's warmth makes them shed crystal shells shattering and avalanching on the snow crust. Such heaps of broken glass to sweep away you'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. The ones they are bowed so low for long they never write themselves. You may see their trunks arching in the woods years afterwards trailing their leaves on the ground like girls on hands and knees that throw their hair before them over their heads to dry in the sun. But I was going to say when truth broke in with all her matter of fact about the ice storm. Now am I free to be poetical? I should prefer to have some boy bend them as he went out and in to fetch the cows. Some boy too far from town to learn baseball. His only play was what he found himself. Summer or winter and could play alone. One by one he subdued his father's trees by riding them down over and over again until he took the stiffness out of them. And not one but hung limp. Not one was left for him to conquer. He learned all there was to learn about not launching out too soon and so not carrying the tree away clear to the ground. He always kept his poise to the top branches climbing carefully with the same pains you used to fill a cup up to the brim and even above the brim. Then he flung outward feet first with a swish kicking his way down through the air to the ground. So was I once myself a swinger of birches. And so I dream of going back to be. It's when I'm weary of considerations and life is too much like a pathless wood where your face burns and tickles with the cobwebs broken across it and one eye is weeping from its wigs having lashed across it open. I'd like to get away from earth a while and then come back to it and begin over. May no fate willfully misunderstand me and half grant what I wish and snatch me away not to return. Earth's the right place for love. I don't know where it's likely to go better. I'd like to go by climbing a birch tree and climb black branches up a snow white trunk toward heaven till the tree could bear no more but dipped its top and set me down again. That would be good both going and coming back. One could do worse than be a swinger of birches. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Birches by Robert Frost. Red for LibriVox.org by Dustin Sharpless. When I see birches bend to left and right across the lines of straight or darker trees I like to think some boys been swinging them but swinging doesn't bend them down to stay. Ice storms do that. Often you must have seen them loaded with ice as sunny in winter morning after a rain. They click upon themselves as the breeze rises and turn mini-colored as the stir cracks and crazes their enamel. Soon the sun's warmth makes them shed crystal shells shattering and avalanching on the snow crust. Such heaps of broken glass to sweep away you'd think the inner dome of heaven had fallen. They are dragged to the withered broken by the load and they seem not to break though once they are bowed so low for long they never right themselves. You may see their trunks arching in the woods years afterwards trailing their leaves on the ground like girls on hands and knees that throw their hair before them over their heads to dry in the sun. But I was going to say when truth broken with all her matter of fact about the ice storm. Now am I free to be poetical? I should prefer to have some boy bend them as he went out in aim to fetch the cows. Some boy too far from town to learn baseball whose only play was what he found himself some more or winter and could play alone. One by one he subdued his father's trees by writing them down over and over again until he took the stiffness out of them and not one but hung limp not one was left for him to conquer. He learned all there was to learn about not launching out too soon and so not carrying the tree away clear to the ground. He always kept his poise to the top branches climbing carefully with the same pains you used to fill a cup up to the brim and even above the brim then he flung outward feet first with a swish kicking his way down through the air to the ground. So was I once a swinger of birches and so I dream of going back to be. It's when I'm wary of considerations and life is too much like a pathless wood where your face burns and tickles with the cobwebs broken across it and one eye is weeping from a twigs having lashed across it open. I'd like to get away from earth a while and then come back to it and begin over. May no fate willfully misunderstand me and half grant what I wish and snatch me away not to return. Earth's the right place for love. I don't know where it's likely to go better. I'd like to go by climbing a birch tree and climb black branches up a snow white trunk toward heaven till the tree could bear no more but dipped its top and set me down again. That would be good both going and coming back. One could do worse than to be a swinger of birches. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Birches by Robert Frost. Read the LibriVox.org by James O'Connor. February 2010. When I see birches bend to left and right across the lines of straighter darker trees I like to think some boys been swinging them but swinging doesn't bend them down to stay. Ice storms do that. Often you must have seen them loaded with ice a sunny winter morning after a rain. They click upon themselves as the breeze rises and turn mini-colored as the stir cracks and crazes their enamel. Soon the sun's warmth makes them shed crystal shells. Shattering and avalanching on the snow crust. Such heaps of broken glass to sweep away. You'd think the inner dome of heaven had fallen. They are dragged to the withered bracket by the load. And they seem not to break. Though once they are bowed so low for long, they never right themselves. You may see their trunks arching in the woods years afterwards. Trailing their leaves on the ground like girls on hands and knees that throw their hand before them over their heads to dry in the sun. But I was going to say when truth broke in. With all her matter of fact about the ice storm. Now am I free to be poetical? I should prefer to have some boy bend them as 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 trees by riding him down over and over again until he took the stiffness out of them. And not one but hung limp. Not one was left. For him to conquer. He learned all there was to learn about not launching out too soon. And so not carrying the tree away clear to the ground. He always kept his poise to the top branches. Climbing carefully. With the same pains you used to fill a cup up to the brim and even above the brim. Then he plung outward, feet first with a swish. Kicking his way down through the air to the ground. So was I once myself a swinger of birches. And so I dream of going back to be. It's when I'm weary of considerations. And life is too much like a pathless wood. Where your face burns and tickles with the cobwebs broken across it. And one eye is weeping from a twigs having lashed across it open. I'd like to get away from earth awhile and then come back to it and begin over. May no fate willfully misunderstand me. And half grant what I wish and snatch me away, not to return. First the right place full out. I don't know where it's likely to go better. I'd like to go by climbing a birch tree. Then climb black branches up a snow white trunk toward heaven till the tree could bear no more. But dipped its top and set me down again. That would be good both going and coming back. One could do worse than be a swinger of birches. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Birches by Robert Frost, read for LibriVox.org by L. Lambert Lawson, Escondido, California. When I see birches bend to the left and right across the lines of straighter darker trees, I like to think some boys been swinging them. But swinging doesn't bend them down to stay. Ice storms do that. Often you must have seen them loaded with ice a sunny winter morning after a rain. They click upon themselves as the breeze rises and turn many colored as the stir cracks and crazes their enamel. Soon the sun's warmth makes them shed crystal shells, shattering and avalanching on the snow crust. Such heaps of broken glass sweep away you'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 bowed so low for long, they never right themselves. You may see their chunks arching in the woods years afterwards, trailing their leaves on the ground like girls on hands and knees that throw their hair before them over their heads to dry in the sun. But I was going to say when truth broke in with all her matter of fact about the ice storm. Now am I free to be poetical? I should prefer to have some boy bend them as 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 trees by writing them down over and over again until he took the stiffness out of them, and not one but hung limp. Not one was left for him to conquer. He learned all there was to learn about not launching out too soon and so not carrying the tree away clear to the ground. He always kept his poise to the top branches climbing carefully with the same pains you use to fill a cup up to the brim and even above the brim. Then he flung outward feet first with a swoosh kicking his way down through the air to the ground. So was I once myself a swinger of birches and so I dream of going back to be. It's when I'm weary of considerations and life is too much like a pathless wood where your face burns and tickles with the cobwebs broken across it and one eye is weeping from a twigs having lashed across it open. I'd like to get away from earth awhile and then come back to it and begin over. May no fate willfully misunderstand me and half grant what I wish and snatch me away not to return. Earth's the right place for love. I don't know where it's likely to go better. I'd like to go by climbing a birch tree and climb black branches up a snow white trunk toward heaven till the tree could bear no more but dipped its top and set me down again. That would be good both going and coming back. One could do worse than be a swinger of birches. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Birches by Robert Frost, read for LibriVox.org by Leonard Wilson of Springfield, Ohio, February 2010. When I see birches bent left and right across the lines of straighter darker trees, I like to think some boys been swinging them. But swinging doesn't bend them down to stay. Ice storms do that. Often you must have seen them loaded with ice a sunny winter morning after a rain. They click upon themselves as the breeze rises and turn many colored as the stir cracks and crazes their enamel. Soon the sun's warmth makes them shed crystal shells shattering and avalanching on the snow crust. Such heaps of broken glass to sweep away you'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 bowed so low for long they never right themselves. You may see their trunks arching in the woods years afterwards trailing their leaves on the ground like girls on hands and knees that throw their hair before them over their heads to dry in the sun. But I was going to say when truth broke in with all her matter of fact about the ice storm, now am I free to be poetical? I should prefer to have some boy bend them as 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 trees by riding them down over and over again until he took the stiffness out of them and not one but hung limp, not one was left for him to conquer. He learned all there was to learn about not launching out too soon and so not carrying the tree away clear to the ground. He always kept his poise to the top branches climbing carefully with the same pains you used to fill a cup up to the brim and even above the brim. Then he flung outward feet first with a swish kicking his way down through the air to the ground. So was I once myself a swinger of birches, and so I dream of going back to be. It's when I'm weary of considerations and life is too much like a pathless wood where your face burns and tickles with the cobwebs broken across it and one eye is weeping from a twigs having lashed across it open. I'd like to get away from Earth a while and then come back to it and begin over. I may no fate willfully misunderstand me and half grant what I wish and snatch be away not to return. Earth's the right place for love. I don't know where it's likely to go better. I'd like to go by climbing a birch tree and climb black branches up a snow-white trunk toward heaven till the tree could bear no more but dipped its top and set me down again. That would be good both going and coming back. One could do worse than be a swinger of birches. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Birches by Robert Frost. Read for LibriVox.org by Mark Smith. When I see birches bend to left and right across the lines of straighter darker trees, I like to think some boys been swinging them. But swinging doesn't bend them down to stay. Ice storms do that. Often you must have seen them loaded with ice a sunny winter morning after a rain. They click upon themselves as the breeze rises and turn many-colored as the stir cracks and crazes their enamel. Soon the sun's warmth makes them shed crystal shells, shattering and avalanching on the snow-crust. Such heaps of broken glass to sweep away, you'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 bowed so low for long they never write themselves. You may see their trunks arching in the woods years afterwards, trailing their leaves on the ground, like girls on hands and knees that throw their hair before them over their heads to dry in the sun. But I was going to say, when truth broke in, with all her matter of fact about the ice storm, now am I free to be poetical? I should prefer to have some boy bend them as 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 trees by writing them down over and over again until he took the stiffness out of them. And not one but hung limp, not one was left for him to conquer. He learned all there was to learn about not launching out too soon and so not carrying the tree away cleared to the ground. He always kept his poise to the top branches, climbing carefully with the same pains you used to fill a cup up to the brim, and even above the brim. Then he flung outward feet first with a swish, kicking his way down through the air to the ground. So was I once myself a swinger of birches, and so I dream of going back to be. It's when I'm weary of considerations and life is too much like a pathless wood where your face burns and tickles with the cobwebs broken across it, and one eye is weeping from a twigs having lashed across it open. I'd like to get away from earth a while, and then come back to it and begin over. May no fate willfully misunderstand me and half-grant what I wish and snatch me away not to return. Earth's the right place for love. I don't know where it's likely to go better. I'd like to go by climbing a birch tree, and climb black branches up a snow-white trunk toward heaven, till the tree could bear no more, but dipped its top and set me down again. That would be good, both going and coming back. One could do worse than be a swinger of birches. End of form. This recording is in the public domain. Loaded with ice a sunny winter morning after a rain, they click upon themselves as the breeze rises and turn many-colored as the stir cracks and crazes their enamel. Soon the sun's warmth makes them shed crystal shells, shattering and outlanding on the snow-crust. Such heaps of broken glass to sweep away you'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 bowed so low for long they never bite themselves. You may see their trunks arching in the woods years afterward, trailing their leaves on the ground, like girls on hands and knees that throw their hair before them over their heads to dry in the sun. But I was going to say, when truth broke in with all her matter of fact about the ice storm, now am I free to be poetical? I should prefer to have some boy bend them, as he went out at 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 trees by riding them down over and over again, until he took the stiffness out of them. And not one but hung limp, not one was left for him to conquer. He learned all there was to learn about not launching out too soon, and so not carrying the tree away clear to the ground. He always kept his poise to the top branches, climbing carefully with the same pains you use to fill a cup up to the brim, and even above the brim. Then he flung outward feet first with a swish, kicking his way down through the air to the ground. So was I once myself a swinger of birches, and so I dream of going back to be. It's when I'm weary of considerations, and life is too much like a pathless wood, where your face burns and tickles with the cobwebs broken across it, and one eye is weeping from twigs having lashed across it open. I'd like to get away from earth a while, and then come back to it and begin over. May no fate willfully misunderstand me, and half grant what I wish, and snatch me away not to return. Earth's the right place for love, and I don't know where it's likely to go better. I'd like to go by climbing a birch tree, and climb black branches up a snow-white trunk toward heaven till the tree could bear no more, but dipped its top and set me down again. That would be good both going and coming back. One could do worse than be a swinger of birches. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Birches by Robert Frost. Red for Librebox.org by Seneca Souter. When I see birches bend to left and right across 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 them, loaded with ice a sunny winter morning after a rain. They click upon themselves as the breeze rises, and turn many-colored as the stir cracks and crazes their enamel. Soon the sun's warmth makes them shed crystal shells, shattering and avalanching on the snow crust. Such heaps of broken glass to sweep away, you'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 the once they are bowed. So low for long they never right themselves. You may see their trunks arching in the woods years afterwards, trailing their leaves on the ground like girls on hands and knees that throw their hair before them over their heads to dry in the sun. But I was going to say when truth broken was all her matter of fact about the ice storm. Now am I free to be poetical? I should prefer to have some boy bend them as 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 trees by riding them down over and over again until he took the stiffness out of them. And not one but hung limp, not one was left for him to conquer. He learned all there was to learn about not launching out too soon and so not carrying the tree away clear to the ground. He always kept his poise to the top branches climbing carefully with the same pains you used to fill a cup up to the brim and even above the brim. Then he flung outward, feet first with a swish, kicking his way down through the air to the ground. So was I once myself a swinger of birches and so I dream of going back to be. It's when I'm wary of considerations and life is too much like a pathless wood where your face burns and tickles with the cobwebs broken across it and one eye is weeping from a twigs having lashed across it open. I'd like to get away from earth for a while and then come back to it and begin over. May no fate willfully misunderstand me and half-grant what I wish and snatch me away not to return. Earth's the right place for love. I don't know where it's likely to go better. I'd like to go by climbing a birch tree and climb black branches up a snow white trunk toward heaven till the tree could bear no more but dipped its top and set me down again. That would be good both going and coming back. One could do worse than be a swinger of birches. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. When I see birches bend to left and right across 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 them loaded with ice a sunny winter morning after a rain. They click upon themselves as the breeze rises and turn many-colored as their stir cracks and crazes their enamel. Soon the sun's warmth makes them shed crystal shells shattering and avalanching on the snow crust. Such heaps of broken glass to sweep away you'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 bowed so low for long they never write themselves. You may see their trunks arching in the woods years afterwards, trailing their leaves on the ground like girls on hands and knees that throw their hair before them over their heads to dry in the sun. But I was going to say, when truth broke in with all her matter of fact about the ice storm, now am I free to be vertical? I should prefer to have some boy bend them as 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 trees by riding them down over and over again. Until he took the stiffness out of them, and not one but hung limp, not one was left for him to conquer. He learned all there was to learn about not launching out too soon, and so not carrying the tree away clear to the ground. He always kept his poise to the top branches, climbing carefully with the same pains you use to fill a cup up to the brim or even above the brim. Then he flung outward, feet first with a swish, kicking his way down through the air to the ground. So was I once myself a swinger of birches, and so I dream of going back to be. It's when I'm weary of considerations, and life is too much like a pathless wood where your face burns and tickles with the cobwebs broken across it, and one eye is weeping from a twigs having lashed across it open. I'd like to get away from earth a while, and then come back to it and begin over. May no fate willfully misunderstand me, and half grant what I wish and snatch me away not to return. Earth's the right place for love. I don't know where it's likely to go better. I'd like to go by climbing a birch tree, and climb black branches up a snow-white trunk toward heaven, till the tree could bear no more, but dipped its top and set me down again. That would be good, both going and coming back. One could do worse than be a swinger of birches. End of POMM. This recording is in the public domain.