Monday, November 29, 2010


      HE tree has entered my hands,
      The sap has ascended my arms,
      The tree has grown in my breast-- 
      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)