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