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Ezra Pound

Ezra Pound

A Girl

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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At the table beyond us With her little suede slippers off… With her white-stocking’d feet Carefully kept from the floor by a… She converses:
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