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.

 

By Ezra Pound