XII
Songs For Myself. 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.