Each time she slips, my striving fancies start
To plot how I might prosper by her fall.
So sprouts choked out by arbors make an art
Of claiming back a spot reprieved from pall:
When suddenly some swollen tree collapses
And sinks its hulking tonnage into earth,
The air will shake—but little time elapses
Before some sprigs start revving for rebirth.

Am I unkind? I simply need more space;
Her shady stretching violates this right.
I’ve hunkered close to soil—a sad disgrace
For herbage meant to muster lofty height.
My poor sad stems; my pining buds and leaves,
Attend my words: who strives, at last receives!