The delights are many
But sweetness is scarce
Sedation is plenty
The rest is a farce
The leaves are bat-wings
The berries are stale
The log- hollow, rotted-
A breath could impale
And yet it stands so
A beautiful beacon
To those that broke homes
And small towns did weaken
Away they flock to the lonely hills
Where each ad is the piper’s tune
Of silent wishes unfulfilled an
Angels weep three times before noon