They cannot mean to plant it, though—
Unless in bitterness to mock
At having cultivated rock.
ON A TREE FALLEN ACROSS THE ROAD
(To hear us talk)
The tree the tempest with a crash of wood
Throws down in front of us is not to bar
Our passage to our journey’s end for good,
But just to ask us who we think we are
Insisting always on our own way so.
She likes to halt us in our runner tracks,