A girl

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.

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