The stately trees, they are now stunted, The vagrants of the city, in the street lights Falling above them. The new spring leaves hang on, Twixt the gray, howling world, and the rapture Of ancient trees renewed.

Between the gray, the melting light hangs in motion, Ever growing with the stars. The old trees swing, And each thing that breathes around here breaks the frost That binds our sighs and fills the void.

Oh life is there, the trees call, And pulse while the ashes cohort the evening. Within each old hollow, every leaf stirs, It cannot die, nor cease, nor idle, nor sleep.

• Ezra Pound