The Tree

    Oh to be free of myself, With nothing left to remember, To have my heart as bare As a tree in December；

    Resting, as a tree rests After its leaves are gone, Waiting no more for a rain at night Nor for the red at dawn；

    But still, oh so still While the winds come and go, With no more fear of the hard frost¹ Or the bright burden² of snow；

    And heedless, heedless If anyone pass and see On the white page of the sky Its thin black tracery.