Little girl I see your wisdom What it is Inspection freshly Of the changing grass
And here within Tired skin My sameness with each tree Congratulate you morning With a smile
I am not yoked to Madness death Or even children In my wondering Or in my sadness, still
I must admire Each way of looking Once again Towards some more green Less final thing
A speaker, tired and aging, watches a little girl study the grass and sees in her a kind of wisdom. She isn't explaining anything. She's simply looking closely, as if every blade were new, and that fresh attention is what the speaker admires. Against her, he feels worn: "tired skin," yet strangely at one with the trees, as if age has made him part of the natural world rather than separate from it. He greets her morning with a smile.
The middle of the poem is the most surprising part. He says he isn't "yoked to / Madness death / Or even children," which suggests he refuses to be tied to the heavy things that usually crowd a mind, including sadness itself. Even in his wondering, he keeps looking toward something "more green / Less final." The mood is gentle and quietly hopeful, a tender kind of envy that turns into learning.