twisted, gnarled, bent he stood,
ebony brown, of burled wood,
humble creature of tortured form,
hillside weathered through life of storm

battered by the highland gales
that swept the sweet and sunny dales,
contorted by the skies' assails
that hit and pounded as wind to sails

crushed, not broken, zoetic substance
gave new meaning to reluctance
as it withstood those blasts of dread
that left its brothers broken 'n dead

i lent against its ancient bark
to hear its secret of immortality
how to survive when all is dark
when you be victim of brutality

i heard its voice in rustled leaf,
in soft breeze and zephyr,
perchance the whisper of forest nymph
or murmur of the satyr

its voice was as a swaying sheaf,
its song was joy and not of grief,
its message true, profound and brief,
shibboleth that is nature's motif

it whispered of that low, sweet root,
from which all heavenly virtues shoot,
"The bending low before the brute
enabled me give forth my fruit".