You seem a little sister of the trees
That nod their heads before the still, blue noon;
But you will grow into a litheness soon
That mocks a slim bough shaken in the breeze.
About you beauty's brilliant birds will flit,
And of your quiet presence will be made
A leafy haven and a little shade
Where for a while tired wanderers may sit.

Some day, men sick for lands they do not see
Will think of how, across a sweep of grass,
They saw the vision of a young girl pass
Like poplars nodding out of Lombardy;
And they will rise, inspired, because a lass
They knew was lovelier than a tall green tree.