What is different about your trunk?
Said the Cedar to the Ash.
It's rotten, ere forgotten,
And its branches have long gone.

What is different about your leaves?
Asked the Oak to the Holly.
They're pointed and disjointed
And their colour has gone dark.

What is different about your boughs?
Asked the Poplar to the Yew.
They're leveled and disheveled.
Do you like them? Oh I do.

The sunlight is fanned by your boughs, dear Yew,
Rain makes night seem longer on your leaves, my Holly
Your trunk may be rotten, dear Ash, but it is terribly untrue
To say that it does worse than any other.

The forest lights with sunly sprights
And I will walk among the trees
And hear the sounds and see the sights
Of a nature much more at ease.

love is more thicker than forget

more thinner than recall

more seldom than a wave is wet

more frequent than to fail


it is most mad and moonly

and less it shall unbe

than all the sea which only

is deeper than the sea


love is less always than to win

less never than alive

less bigger than the least begin

less littler than forgive


it is most sane and sunly

and more it cannot die

than all the sky which only

is higher than the sky

My dearest love, O butterfly of mine,
whom in my eyes is more than I deserve,
accept O goddess these words in your shrine;
these verses are my gift, your will they serve.

I can recall the day when we did walk
upon the cobblestone lantern-light streets,
and though we let our legs and heads a’wander,
our hearts did guide our lost and nervous feet.

We drank some tea, but we were drunk on love,
though we were green we knew it even then,
though not in conscience but in dreams thereof,
these arrows of the heart escaped our ken.

But my own mind was clouded in a storm
of worry and of silent judging rain;
the clouds of sorrow in my head did swarm
I could not flee this sudden lightning pain.

How harshly did I look upon myself,
though life was bright and fortune often smiled.
So for my miserly and wretched self
I only had disdain and words most vile.

Yet in your eyes there had appeared a flame
to warm the night and make more bright the day.
you look'd upon my sins with no more blame
then if you watched the inn'cent child at play.

The judging light your eyes does not corrode,
they see me in a gentle loving way
So to these orbs I will recite an ode;
please do not judge my rhymes or skills I pray:

     Your eyes alone these verses cannot capture,
     For as I stare they morph in front of me;
     But these poor lines are merely words on paper,
     A simple and unchanging melody.
     Golden as sunly warmth, brown strength of earth,
     As blue as oceans wide, and forests green;
     O bless’d must be the hour of your birth,
     To give your eyes more colors than a queen‘s.

Yet though this failed to show your eyes in whole
and could do naught to write the richness of your soul,
your soul it filled my verse and warmed my heart,
a promise that we’d never be apart.

Yet here we are, we knew it even then,
though I refused to let my thoughts there stray;
our love was bright, it led me through the night,
but though t’was good, it was not meant to stay.