Saplings in Meadows

Saplings in meadows will try to be grass,
Dancingly limber, unhindered by mass,
But quickly must learn the lesson of be,
When, time moving forward, they find they are tree.

Grasses have glory in litheness of bole,
Perfect in concert their bowing and soul,
Girls running fingers through waving gold heads,
And nearness of presence to Chloris's beds.

Trees have their glory in stoutness of build,
With sinewy limbs the crest of their guild,
Boys laying quiet in foliate shade,
And hostings of flocks for liberal aid.

Be what you are! Be what you are!
'Tis so much better than feigning by far!
Seasons forthcoming, young Sapling will grow:
Into Old Maple its trials will flow.

To be something else than you outright allow,
You must be truer the thing you are now.
The time between now and when you shall be
Is simply the process common to thee.

To be something else is possible still,
But only in being what thine Maker will.
For in doing this, you surely will find
You no longer are your previous kind.


April 8th, 2010


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