the trees, the river oak, the silver birch,
they are for me, my clapboard church,
the guides for this my mystic search.
the willows weep with widow tears,
as owls in them my silent seers,
watching fade my paltry years.
the woods give way to open fields,
a sea of flowers its nature yields,
tis simple beauty that it wields,
to conquer this mere passerby,
his soul, his mind, his artist's eye,
"I must paint thee 'fore I die."