I would moisten dry lips.
I would drop blossoms on the heads of children, over the top of the wall.
I would caress with falling blossoms the bodies of those who live on the further side of the wall.
My branches are creeping upward and new sap comes into me out of the dark ground under the wall.
My fruit shall not be my fruit until it drops from my arms, into the arms of the others, over the top of the wall.
And now as to the life led by the man and woman in the large upper room in that old frame house. By a stroke of luck I have recently got rather a line on that by a discovery I have made.