Trees have roots, and so
Their heaven-reaching's doomed to fail
I, who'll neither reach to heaven
Haven't even roots to hold me fast.
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Just a little Sunday morning thought.

Also, here is a small verse of Petőfi:

Földét a földmives felszántja,
Aztán beboronálja.
Képünket az idő felszántja,
De be nem boronálja.

Which I might translate like this:

The plow cuts furrows in the land
The harrow makes them smooth
Time puts furrows in our brow
That will not be made smooth

(Yes, it's very simple, almost naive.)