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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