I am weary today of all wanting. I will be content with the trees, And their shadows, which dapple my footsteps, And the branches that wait for their leaves. They have nothing to tell me of glory, Ambition or work or of pride, But only the soil and the weather, The stuff of the earth and of life. How fruitless it is, all our longing! Hopes blossom, or not, in their time, Glorious as leaves in their season, That nourish, and fade, and die. The woodland will wait out the winter, Sap sluggish, and roots buried deep, Making beauty of ice and of darkness, Of heartwood and humus and cold frosted leaf.