this blooming tree of mine

temperate, in which root is sown,
to leave for room thine paltry own;
and fertile soils with rain a must,
that sproutlings have become robust.

such healthy guide with your own ways,
that subject to sun's nurturing rays;
though without pruned for form or style,
whose branches could have grown so wild.

and from such humble, base and root,
have others plucked each supple fruit;
to taste, that nectar'd bittersweet,
that one should have for own retreat.

yet i could not, for all my lust,
partake in harvest of your trust;
oh, aging, tree, to beg implore,
and see the sapling you were before,
if only for another day,
before those leaves wither away.

but hope! i see a shadow looms,
a late, whilst budding blossom blooms,
a second coming of greater things,
protracted with the autumn springs.

with flowers beauteous than before,
in numbers more, and evermore;
for all to pick and none to see,
grown thorns for all the likes of me!

so cruel! so bitter! how could thee grown? though beg not mine and not my own,
to choose of birds and bees and eyes, that beckon with sweet sorrow'd lies.

and wait this hand does patiently, that heart of fruit and flower'd tree,
'til sun has set and dawned again, that last bud might remain for me?
but one can only tend so long, for when the winter becks appalled,
should wither into dreary song, to snatch the final petal fall'd.