Trees by William Carlos Williams — Read

Crooked, black tree / on your little grey-black hillock, / ridiculously raised one step toward / the infinite summits of the night: / even you the few grey stars / draw upward into a vague melody / of harsh threads.

Bent as you are from straining / against the bitter horizontals of / a north wind -- there below you / how easily the long yellow notes / of poplars flow upward in a descending / scale, each note secure in its own / posture -- singularly woven.

All voices are blent willingly / against the heaving contra-bass / of the dark but you alone / warp yourself passionately to one side / in your eagerness.