• "Shiver and quiver little tree,"
    Just don't look so wooden.
    The birds in your branches all fly free,
    but your roots mean that you couldn't.
    "I wish, I wish," sighed those self-same birds,
    shaking and shedding leaves and down
    "That that tree's wishes, too, could be heard
    or in sorrow it may drown."
    The sapling's leaves had all turned brown
    from a drought, a dearth of something vital.
    Thorns twisted greedily in a crown;
    the tree's dry leaves whispered a recital:
    "I only asked for love," she cried.
    Her voice was coarse and brittle.
    "You told me I would be your bride...
    You lied. Did I really mean so little?"
    And with a silent scream, she fell,
    roots ripping from the ground.
    And with her death, so died the spell
    of the Love that was so profound.
    So, goodnight, my Love.
    Goodnight, poor tree.
    Was I so unworthy of
    your guarantee?