Beyond a soil so old that serves a tomb,
And streams that run so sweet to flourish blue,
Next a wilderness loving like the womb,
There grows a tree, old patron solid true.
He loves his children much with winding root,
The charming birds band, number on him much.
Old witness pays his dues and reaps of fruit,
But is he always good to love and touch?
He withers like all things so good, he must.
His branches spread, so high and dry they die,
Wind brisk through his leaves fly, and so they rust,
As all the forest, all the sadness cry.
He stands, but dead, as all his children strong
Await upon his wake to look so long.