The Tree

The tree branches stooped,

Tired of bearing the strain

Of weight and time and bark and leaf,

Of snow and wind and rain.

Many found it intriguing to behold

But none would dare come near;

For who would care for such a tree

That hunched in hopeless fear?

“A beauty indeed, I would say.”

“But look at the falling leaves!”

“It would take too much work

To protect it from each breeze.”

The tree heard these things

And tried to stand up straight,

But all could see the difference

‘Tween it and its fellows’ gait.

The tree could not pretend for long

And soon again was bent;

Many looked with hateful scowls

While all its leaves were rent.

But people didn’t know about

The strain upon the tree,

For it had been through many storms

That never should have to be.

Oh, to see it when it was strong –

‘Twas a grand and hopeful tree,

But now it must often weep

And that’s all that people see.

“I’d hate to pick up all those leaves,”

Is all anyone would say.

And the tree would weep all the more

While people walked away.