But one brief flash and he was gone
The young tree, growing e’re so fast
Planted in the joy of summer
Watered through a mellow autumn
And cut in a brutish field
In the harshness of despairing winter
Lending a personal meaning altogether
To Shakespeare’s ides of march.

Oh my lovely young oak,
Could I but see you once again
E’en in my dreams forlorn
Life would become a season of blossoms
Beautiful, promising and sensuous
Enlivening this languishing prison.