I sat beneath an aged tree
Of autumn brown. Intent to muse,
And quite forget my human self;
With shadows fuse.
Amidst the roots in sylvan weave,
Above my head a voice was blown;
A wind-born sigh of mournful leaves
And wooden groan.
The tree itself, with whispered sound
Of forest deep in secret, said:
"With mobile limbs, why sit beneath
The living dead?"
"Despite the gusts and desperate growth
I cannot move; my roots go deep.
Cruel gods have made my waking life
"But you, with limbs of movement free
Could visit further fields than these;
And yet you sit beneath a tree
To hear the breeze?"
For hours I listened, 'till my words
Like vengeful light, cut through the gloam.
“I sit here, that my mind is free
To further roam.”
“A musing soul's imagination
Invents more beauties than the earth
Could hold. And finds, in unseen worlds,
“Deny what atom deems as truth!
And in the fields of Fancy's breath
Take root. To wake from life and die
A dreamer's death!”
The ancient tree gave no reply.
His voice was taken by the wind.
Too far away to give retort.
For dreamer's minds can distant fly
On wings of thought.