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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. . . . . 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. - Robert Lee Frost, Birches Rippling through thy branches foes the sunshine, Among thy leaves that palpitate forever, And in thee, a pining nymph had prisoned The soul, once of some tremulous inland river, Quivering to tell her woe, but ah! dumb, dumb forever. - James Russell Lowell, The Birch Tree
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