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.