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.

The 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