The Tree

by


Oh to be free of myself,
With nothing left to remember,
To have my heart as bare
As a tree in December;

Resting, as a tree rests
After its leaves are gone,
Waiting no more for a rain at night
Nor for the red at dawn;

But still, oh so still
While the winds come and go,
With no more fear of the hard frost
Or the bright burden of snow;

And heedless, heedless
If anyone pass and see
On the white page of the sky
Its thin black tracery.

0

facebook share button twitter share button reddit share button share on pinterest pinterest


Add The Tree to your library.

Return to the Sara Teasdale library , or . . . Read the next poem; The Tree Of Song

© 2022 AmericanLiterature.com