A Girl by Ezra Pound
The 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.
A child - so high - you are,And all this is folly to the world.
