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Poem	Looking upon this tree with its quaint pretension Of holding the earth, a leveret, in its claws, Or marking the texture of its living bark, A grey sea wrinkled by the winds of years, I understand whence this man's body comes, In veins and fibres, the bare boughs of bone, The trellised thicket, where the heart, that robin, Greets with a song the seasons of the blood. But where in meadow or mountain shall I match The individual accent of the speech That is the ear's familiar? To what sun attribute The honeyed warmness of his smile? To which of the deciduous brood is german The angel peeping from the latticed eye?
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