Not Meagre, Latent Boughs Alone

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from Leaves of Grass: BOOK XXXIV. SANDS AT SEVENTY - by Walt Whitman.

  Not meagre, latent boughs alone, O songs! (scaly and bare, like
      eagles’ talons,)
  But haply for some sunny day (who knows?) some future spring, some
      summer—bursting forth,
  To verdant leaves, or sheltering shade—to nourishing fruit,
  Apples and grapes—the stalwart limbs of trees emerging—the fresh,
      free, open air,
  And love and faith, like scented roses blooming.


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