GROW, grow, thou little tree, His body at the roots of thee; Since last year’s loveliness in death The living beauty nourisheth. Bloom, bloom, thou little tree, Thy roots around the heart of me; Thou canst not blow too white and fair From all the sweetness hidden there. Die, die, thou little tree, And be as all sweet things must be; Deep where thy petals drift I, too, Would rest the changing seasons through. Arthur Upson