Sit ‘ere quietly ‘neath endless branches,
listen to its breath arise with rush of air,
hear now breezes find their place again,
’tis peace must be, in o’erwhelmed fare.
This antiquated tree now grows too old,
stained by Fates that hath given it birth,
tho’ dancing sprites hold memory dear,
those driad souls do but seed the earth.
This tree of memory, ’tis all our history,
its limbs have sheltered man and beast,
but break not conflicted, nor e’er pained,
thus, most resilient, hath lessened least.
This tree hath guided some wiser men,
and barred the way of those foolish few,
had it no soul, its leaves would ne’er fall,
had it no heart, its shade would ne’er do.