A Tree

The tree that is so much like a man Stands, a man, a statue of stone. It seems to be lost, alone In the solitudes of the wood, And to be alone, bewildered Among all these yellow-hued boughs. It waits with stiffened pride In the sunlight, brooding.

It removes every trace of virtue, And every darkness of the soul That shadows it on a sultry day;

The yellow silence forces it upright, A brave silence of pride And a grey sky above it. Yet it has no movement — But is rooted in a world of dreams.

The tree is my own body : The tree is my spirit. It holds the boundaries of the earth Between the sun and you. Voyager, it stands immovable as a god! Crumbling will not kill me; I shall hold amiss the boundaries of the sun. The ash, the beech, the oak, And the myriad shrubs of purple tons Are my own waking spirits. Then let come the hand of death!

• Richard Aldington