Wonder.

I wonder about the trees.  

Why do we wish to bear  

Forever the noise of these  

More than another noise  

So close to our dwelling place? 

We suffer them by the day  

Till we lose all measure of pace,  

And fixity in our joys,  

And acquire a listening air.  

They are that that talks of going       

But never gets away;  

And that talks no less for knowing,  

As it grows wiser and older,  

That now it means to stay.  

My feet tug at the floor 

And my head sways to my shoulder  

Sometimes when I watch trees sway,  

From the window or the door.  

I shall set forth for somewhere,  

I shall make the reckless choice 

Some day when they are in voice  

And tossing so as to scare  

The white clouds over them on.  

I shall have less to say,  

But I shall be gone.

Robert Frost