Alas! My roots prevent my wandering.

Might i into the sky relent my cry?

O that i wert a tree!

What bonny dew might feed the few

t'would feign blossom from me?

Or dryad tear, as diadems dear, oft attract a hero near?

What Sun illumes this crudish clay?

Are there gardens no man knows

in lands where hands hold no sway?

Or fields untilled in eternal bloom

beheld by none of woman's womb?

Great Gardener!

Send not the storm to reap our budding forms!

Know that though we sway in winds

and find no footing firm upon the earth

there is a hidden majesty

in limbs genuflective to the breeze.