Beneath a tree upturning you will find No shelter. The brushwood grows wild and tall. But lop away the stinging thorns, and bind The limbs, subdue with unforgiving pall. Would nature dare to keep you in her thrall? Now pare the boughs once broken, grown again. Her surfeit promised overwhelming sprawl, You swore in turn she’d know the gall of men. Did providence commit you to the glen? Dominion granted by some blessed mind? Or from some looming summit did you fall? But listen to the singing of the wren! Has intelligence no answer to his call? Like nature, you are to your own cause blind.