The Sapling

A young tree grows by the fireside.

How simple, for that tree to die!

Its roots have not yet gone so deep

That much would note its eternal sleep,

Nor would the earth be ever scarred

Once that tree left its spot of yard.

Perhaps that tree, if it had the means,

Would go to the realm of eternal dreams,

Or maybe it wishes, like most, to grow

To sparkle in its earthly glow,

To feel the wind rustle its leaves;

Maybe that tree, like me, believes.