The Tree

by Sara Teasdale
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.