A myrtle, a maple, and a tall oak

Sat high on a hill while there still I stood.

With knotted hands upon my knees I spoke

To the myrtle of his flowery hood.

“Were that my white head sang also of spring

Or blazed bright in the maple’s youthful red.

Then I too would join the host, hurrying

As through fiery forest spring’s breath spreads.

Then I would not lie on this hill consumed.

Then I would wake from this drowning slumber.

My head would rise and back straighten from doom,

Death’s axe.  I’d not leave my life for lumber.

Yet though tall still I be, I am the oak

Watching youth from my hill while in age I choke.