Not Meagre, Latent Boughs Alone 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.