We are not the same persons this year as last; nor are those we love. It is a happy chance if we, changing, continue to love a changed person.
by Ezra Pound
The tree has entered my hands,
The sap has ascended my arms,
The tree has grown in my breast-
The branches grow out of me, like arms.
Tree you are,
Moss you are,
You are violets with wind above them.
A child; so high; you are,
And all this is folly to the world.