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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
As ice-storms do.
And they seem not to break; though once they are bowed
So low for long, they never right themselves:
I should prefer to have some boy bend them
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.
You may see their trunks arching in the woods Years afterwards, trailing their leaves on
the ground
One could do worse than be a swinger of birches.