Classic Poem

His sickness over, he was still abed.
He saw through the window when it was unfrosted,
clouds and a tree's branch.
Birds crossed the sky,
or a sparrow hopped from twig to twig.
He watched, becoming quiet as the branch;
it seemed to him that his blood was cool as sap.
When he moved hands or body, he moved slowly,
the branch's way at twilight.
His parents thought merely that he was still weak.
March he was well. Often when he came into his room,
he went to the window for a few minutes and stood watching the tree.
So he watched it bud and the little leaves and the leaves grown large and the leaves color and fall.

His parents had lost their money. They sold the house and were to move away.
He went up to his room for the last time.
The trunk of the tree, branches and twigs were still.
He thought, The tree is symmetrical . . . and whatever grows . . . in shape . . . and in change during the years. So is my life . . . and all lives.
He went down the stairs singing happily.
His father said, " There's so much trouble — and he sings. "