(A more-than-symbolic sonnet for a picture of the same sort by George Wolfe Plank)
BY LOUIS UNTERMEYER
URGED by the peacocks of our vanity,
Up the frail tree of life we climb and grope;
About our heads the tragic branches slope,
Heavy with time and xanthic mystery.
Beyond, the brooding bird of fate we see
Viewing the world with eyes forever ope’,
And lured by all the phantom fruits of hope,
We cling in anguish to this fragile tree.