I wonder about the trees.
Why do we wish to
Forever the noise of
More than another
So close to our dwelling place?
We suffer them by the
Till we lose all measure of pace,
And fixity in our joys,
And acquire a listening air.
They are that that talks of
But never gets away;
And that talks no less for knowing,
As it grows wiser and older,
That now it means to stay.
My feet tug at the
And my head sways to my
Sometimes when I watch trees sway,
From the window or the door.
I shall set forth for somewhere,
I shall make the reckless
Some day when they are in
And tossing so as to
The white clouds over them on.
I shall have less to say,
But I shall be gone.
