Poetry Archives

    “You think I am dead,”
    The apple tree said,
“Because I have never a leaf to show—
    Because I stoop,
    And my branches droop,
And the dull gray mosses over me grow!
But I’m still alive in trunk and shoot;
    The buds of next May
    I fold away—
But I pity the withered grass at my root.”

    “You think I am dead,”
    The quick grass said,
“Because I have parted with stem and blade!
    But under the ground
    I am safe and sound
With the snow’s thick blanket over me laid.
I’m all alive, and ready to shoot,
    Should the spring of the year
    Come dancing here—
But I pity the flower without branch or root.”
    “You think I am dead,”
    A soft voice said,
“Because not a branch or root I own.
    I never have died,
    But close I hide
In a plumy seed that the wind has sown.
Patient I wait through the long winter hours;
    You will see me again—
    I shall laugh at you then,
Out of the eyes of a hundred flowers.”