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MAY

Like trees that are calm and true,
In beauteous parks I grew,
To harsh storms I bent my crew,
My whisper was slight.
With years I grew green, then bare,
To night's shadow was my prair,
And rain with a blinding stare,
On me shone with might.

And visions of stainless thought,
Through my leaves were quickly caught.
Intwined in the unknown's fog,
And in the young, fearless, rogue.
Brushed after one winter- next,
But still the mark of some axe.
Some time in the end of spring,
Was placed on me with some's wing.

A mark made by countless year,
It seemed always strange and near,
But really there's no mark here,
It's none but a wound.
They hope's that I'd be cut low,
But order rang, "let him go",
The mark has been left and so,
On Earth I am still hurt wood.

But tears' mark is still left such,
And hat is death's certain touch.
Here somebody cried through rain,
With eyes pressed to me in strain.
This mark on my bosom, hence,
The rain could not touch or cleanse.
And visions of darkened thought,
My leaves now more often caught.

Those thoughts I, like leaves, threw far
To loneliness gave my scar,
Two humans I tried to scare,
Two humans in love.
The two humans left my shade,
And burned something long since made,
While I to the wind obeyed,
And it did not touch my cove.

Yes, I like a tree grew calm,
But could not keep my weight drawn.
They could not make me not live,
And I did not try to give.
I often lived green lived bare,
Looked over my dark, gray, lair.
But saw only men grow cold,
And slowly began to mold.