A child who was more of the trees,
Than of any man I knew,
Whose laughter tinkled in the breeze,
And mingled in the dew.
Oft In the speckled summer shade,
Pleasant dark and divine,
In the beauteous forest glade,
I saw the child recline.
And when the bees sang over the flowers
I heard a moving song,
Till the sky was littered with stars,
And the night strummed along.
I heard the rustle of brown leaves,
Beneath tiny fleeting feet,
Where the mount to a valley cleaves,
And the sky and earth meet.
The child would wade into lotus ponds,
Behold the joy of play,
Of transient yet immortal bonds,
Like foot steps upon clay.
And then the leaves began to shed,
The trees began to die,
My heart was shattered and bled,
For I heard the child cry.
Each passing second was a year.
The winter months crept by,
And as the frigid end came near,
I was filled with joy.
The spring burst forth in beauty,
And little buds were born,
The world was fleet green and dainty,
But the child, was gone!
Oh when spring was most vibrant,
Spring’s gleeful child was lost,
So did the poison time ferment,
The child was born to frost.
A sad voice haunts the forest glades,
Giggles ring in the sky,
Toddling steps sound on the blades,
Oh moving me to cry…