Quietous* tree,
That hath sought
Found to bleed
And from torment wrought,

Thou dost despondent stand
And thy veins doth shed
And bury in desolate land
The tears that thou hast bled.

Thine heart's own verisimilitude
Beats within thy stiff breast
And all thee hath eschewed
And thy plot avoid lest

Thy count'nance rear'd
And thy misery form'd
Within all whom thee fear'd
And their joy harm'd.

Quietous* tree,
Son of agony's lot,
From the pain within thee,
What horror hast thou begot?