I sit Before a willow tree, Old and gnarled, Full of life, And I ask The tree: Willow, who are you, What are you? The willow answers: Man, I am thee. Your pain is mine, When snow and ice Encase my leafless bones. Your joy mine As spring Warms my sap. You thrill To storm-winds Tearing at my limbs, And slumber When autumn Softly takes My green away. Know not thyself In me? Poor man! Such needless tragedy!
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