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 gra**es 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 a**ist 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.