Out of the brown stones flung around
the young tree stands like a symbol,
of the fluting texture of sound
and a thinness where the stones crumble;
and the seeded green shoots like a star
from your waist, and the green leaves
part the mooned tidings of your hair
with a brilliant comb of loves.
That you have failed in the touch, have lost
the perfect greeness to your painted grass,
is a scarce seen worm in the wood, passed;
one knowledge, perfect, sets the pace.
All this a small dream does in a dark street,
the poem of one tree reveals
the only valid image of a love complete
beyond the end of simple fairy tales.