Of my cries nor it's thorns that hurt me.
It's trees are of beauty
For they attract many I see.
There they stood
And here they stay
For they are brawny
Rooted and Great
The wind is uncertain
For it's as my life, for I live as it comes
And reap solidity of coming times
In the heat of the star.
In such days I awake to win,
For in it comes delight
Where memories are made fun.
Why is it I speak by tears,
Accompanied by quavering voice?
Is it of the worlds spears or the thoughts of sly men?
For I have met many with gerund
Smiles and character
That dissemble motive.