About Trees

I cannot talk with trees;
There are other things that sing
And only near the hollow trunk
Of that murmuring orange tree.
Leaves that cover its limbs with their sheen
And shine with each passing breeze
Make whispers own way to things unseen.

I cannot sit beneath a bough,
For I am never still
And for all their glow and green;
They are too calm yet still.
I walk instead in battle fights
Through storms that take me high,
But I am born for endless flight
And have no will to die.

• Edward Thomas