Walt Whitman(1819–1892) · Leaves of Grass · Sands at Seventy · 1888
Not meagre, latent boughs alone, O songs! (scaly and bare, like eagles’ talons,) But haply for some sunny day (who knows?) some future spring, some summer—bursting forth, To verdant leaves, or sheltering shade—to nourishing fruit, Apples and grapes—the stalwart limbs of trees emerging—the fresh, free, open air, And love and faith, like scented roses blooming.