Walt Whitman

Leaves of Grass. 34. Sands at Seventy. 50. Not Meagre, Latent Boughs Alone

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.