The Plane Tree

You lean, Great Plane tree, and offer yourself nude, White as a Scythian youth But your candour is caught, and your foot held fast By the strength of the site. Oh, echoing shadow where the same blue sky, That carries you off is appeased. And the dark mother compels the pure new foot On which the mud weighs heavy. The wind does not wish your voyaging brow, And the dark tender earth, O Plane tree, will not let your shadow Marvel at its stride. This brow may access alone the shining steps Which the sap itself allows, You may grow, O candour, but never burst The knots of the eternal halt.