As dusk falls softly on the wood,
The willows give a sigh.
Their majesty is bound within
Man's fragile, mortal eye.
The embers fade with hours passed,
As darkness claims the ash.
The comfort that they once supplied
Is bound within man's cache.
While winds blow through the brittle boughs,
The forest cries for day.
That beauty which is meant for awe
Without men brings dismay.
The waters sweep across the beds
Of river-banks once pure.
Now they flow with sulking pride
Of how men saw their shores.
The marvels to be found within
The craft of Nature's ways
Are truly sights of beauty lost
By ignorant man's days.
But day is not what trees fear most;
No, day still brings the light.
And with all light comes certain hope
By chance of their grand sight.
The terror of the forest floor
Comes with setting sun.
That faithless darkness brings its pain
By ending that begun.
As men retreat unto their dreams,
The trees are left to die –
The worst of pains to be endured
By any life oft tried.