Poetry Explorer

Classic and Contemporary Poetry

A WHITE BIRCH TREE, by                    
First Line: I would not be a clinging vine
Last Line: It lifts again to meet the sky.
Subject(s): Birch Trees; Introspection; Strength


I would not be a clinging vine:
Tenacious tendrils groping round,
To find an unresisting staff
To raise it from the lowly ground.

I would not be a trembling reed
And only summer's fleeting guest,
That crumples at the first frost-kiss,
Too frail to bear each season's test.

But I would be a white birch tree;
Though piercing winds may crucify
And thunderstorms beat ruthlessly,
It lifts again to meet the sky.





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