BY DR. AGONSON
As like that tree humbly without Spring’s joy,
without green leaf—no budding fruit is found—;
as like that tree whose brittle limbs no boy
should climb—a breeze would send them to the ground—;
as like that tree bleached naked in the sun,
whose hollow trunk is all that stands today,
so I amid forests of men do run.
But still a hope I find against dismay.
Out of hollows may life emerge anew.
Listen to tweetle-chirps of owlets there
within that long dead tree. They’ll say to-who
before the end of Spring and Summer’s fair.
Yes, dead inside I know myself to be,
but soon I’ll fly—never again a tree.