Recognized

That awkward moment when you open up a book of poetry of Robert Frost that you found in a free library kiosk in the park---that once was merely the antechamber to your own private wandering deserve reserve--and in the very first page, one finds a short poem that is basically your own soul's journey, the distillation of your a lifetime of your yearnings from your earliest boyhood, in a mere fourteen lines. I can barely contain the gurglings up from my gut at how recognized I was recognized fifty years before I was born. 

One of my wishes is that those dark trees,

So old and firm they scarcely show the breeze,

Were not, as 'twere, the merest mask of gloom,

But stretched away unto the edge of doom. (source)