Classic poem of the day
O trees, to whom the darkness is a child
Scampering in and out of your long, green beards;
O trees, to whom sunlight is a tattered pilgrim
Counting his dreams within your hermitage
And slipping down the road in twilight-robes;
O trees, whose leaves make an incense of sound
Reeling with the beat of your caught feet—
Do not mingle your tips in startled hatred
When little men come to fell you.
These men will saw you into strips
Of pointed brooding......
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