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A Girl

 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.

Poem by Ezra Pound
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