Not that the olive spurns the sun

(…)

Not that the olive spurns the sun; its leaves
Scatter and point to every part of the sky,
Like famished fingers waving. Brilliance weaves
And sombers down among them, and among
The anxious silver branches, down to the dry
And tsisted tgrunk, by rooted hunger wrung.

(…)

Richard Wilbur’s

From: Richard Wilbur’s, Ceremony and Other Poems, 1950

Richard Wilbur's