If I could strip thee — my unsung beauty — of thy most endless, treacherous pain;
Trimming the spoiling branches at their vile base; and eyeing keenly, so not thy trialed-tree, debase;
Watering thy roots each day and night so thy leaves shall never brown or wilt or wane;
Bargaining with Autumn’s call of mourning: great portions of my heart I would displace,
Then, still —
Would clasp the Sun in Hellish flame — to know that no more terror’d nights thou’d bear,
Hold with the lovers’ warm embrace — till I to ashes, forever are branded there;
Promises and fealties: I’d cast them down — to thy most holiest worn and unwashed feet;
And forever the happiest gardener, be — to witness mortal enemies: Suffering and Healing
Like old friends — warmly greet.