Underneath a tree I lie,
Watching with lack lustre eye,
   All those little trivial things
   Weakness after sickness brings;
Watching birds flit to and fro;
Watching how the grasses grow;
   Watching how the leaves and trees
   Blend in Autumn harmonies
And wise insects, taught by God,
Build their shelters in the sod.

Oh, how low the pride of men
Falls and grovels meekly, when
   Convalescence comes at last
   After long borne sufferings past,
E'en the arrogance of pain --
That strange vanity -- is vain
   And he lies, a stricken thing,
   Bereft of even suffering.

All is gone -- the pain, the pride;
Arrogance is laid aside.
   And he owes all things he'd do
   To some worthier being, who,
Out of charity, shall seek
To assist the helpless weak --
   Out of charity to lend
   Splendid strength he is to spend.

So beneath the tree I lie,
Reading with a languid eye
   Views of that and views of this
   In a world so long amiss,
And, by some strange alchemy,
Suddenly it seems to me
   That, as Earth's wild turmoils cease,
   Comes convalescence now and peace.

"Den"
Herald, 21 March 1934, p6