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GREEN LEAVES

There in their pride they crouch and wait,A green-eyed ring of wolves, who slayThe night-bound straggler for their prey. . . .Closer and closer they inch their way.
V.You think a park is a fenced and clippedBody of tree claves, manacled tight?They will march free on their own night.See how one venturesome root has grippedAnd twisted the pavement's concrete mass,Forcing a widening crevasse.See how the grass between the bricksWorries them with its gradual tricks.See how the slow boughs reach an armOver the fence to things forbidden;And the white roots keep up a hiddenEndless restlessness, groping their harm.
The seasons crowd with muffled tread;Man will abandon the brick-walled street. . . .The trees' triumph will be complete.The staid blank walls will be engravedWith what the ivy creepers plaited;

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