You are like the stem 
Of a young beech-tree,
Straight and swaying,
Breaking out in golden leaves.
 
Your walk is like the blowing of a beech-tree 
On a hill. 
          
Your voice is like leaves 
Softly struck upon by a South wind.
 
Your shadow is no shadow, but a scattered sunshine;
And at night you pull the sky down to you 
And hood yourself in stars. 
             
But I am like a great oak under a cloudy sky,
Watching a stripling beech grow up at my feet.
 
Amy Lowell