Now this: a weathered tree beating the storm.
Its roots are sleeping where they lie in earth.
The sighing rain repudiates its worth,
Viciously scattering all about its form.
With livid thunder, fires do not warm,
But sparks announce the burning of a birth:
Leaves fall, boughs sway, in dancing beats of mirth
That mocks the violence of the thunderstorm.
Blow, blow, cold cruel wind; destroy,
Rebuild, oh! stir the sleeping earth, and when
It comes for you to sleep, the stubborn ploy
Of hope will take all life and rise. And then
The trees will wake; the rains will cease their toil.
All wake and sleep like beasts and common men.


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