HE tree has entered my hands, 
The sap has ascended my arms, - The tree has grown in my breast--
- Downward,
- The branches grow out of me, like arms.
- Tree you are,
- Moss you are,
- You are violets with wind above them.
- A child -- so high -- you are,
- And all this is folly to the world.
by Ezra Pound (1885-1972)
