Astray, but in that impenetrable wood
A bamboo can not be sweet sandal wood
Unless in that hallow trunk be your home good
And nothing but feeling pure be your only food.
Trees may shed their breeze green
And the peaks tall their sheen
Let that old branch be lean
To let veins to be seen.
Then Poverty, grief, bondage and the disease
With time, season, age and action may ease
The grief of despair like a gentle breeze