  Conversation in oak trees, Better than the talk of men Because it ends where they begin Futilely. Ferns, and invasion of moss, Waiting for the conquest of words To dwindle with the years And find, in the doom of green, A mute and sprightly correction. These trees do not proclaim That men are fools or geniuses. Their rustling tolerance Does not seek to intrude Upon the indifference of time, And it is appropriate That their leaves should wait to contain The discarded syllables Of human erudition. I have seen a man Gaze upon an oak tree, As one who hates a patient enemy. Sensual desires and mental plots Combat of envy and pride Gained the dilated prize of his eyes As he looked upon the tree. Then his voice achieved The solace of admiration. “The leaves are beautiful in Autumn. This oak tree has a pleasant sturdiness.” When confronted by a tree, Or sunset prowling down the hills, The sensual boast of men Trembles with fear and raises The shield of adoration. Look upon the oak tree Without that simulated courage Falsely wrung from soothing sound. The oak tree is a living prison Where the thoughts and lusts of men Dangle to the whims of winds And learn an unexpected tolerance. Seek revenge upon the tree; Dress it in capricious metaphor; Fling your costumes on its frame. Or, better still, realize That the oak tree does not Demolish the souls of men. Is only the mingled womb and tomb With which an ancient illusion Perpetuates the religions that keep it alive. Before I leave the oak tree Laughter captures my lips. Newton, a dry and wavering leaf, Has fallen to the earth. |
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