The Tree

Oh to be free of myself,
   With nothing left to remember,
  To have my heart as bare
   As a tree in December;

Resting, as a tree rests
   After its leaves are gone,
  Waiting no more for a rain at night
   Nor for the red at dawn;

But still, oh so still
   While the winds come and go,
  With no more fear of the hard frost
   Or the bright burden of snow;

And heedless, heedless
   If anyone pass and see
  On the white page of the sky
   Its thin black tracery.