For works with similar titles, see The Tree.

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 frost
Or the bright burden of snow;


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