Not Town Branch, Cane Run, Eagle, Scott, or Elkhorn;

not tulip poplar, redbud, dogwood, pawpaw, sycamore, river birch, hackberry, black walnut, honey locust, red cedar, sweetbay, or sweetgum could quench the fire that consumes my heart as much as a lovely spring that sometimes weeps with me, and the sturdy young tree whom in my verse I praise and mourn.

In these I find some protection against the onslaught of Love, through which I must pass my days as if armored, while life rushes on with astonishing speed.

So let the clear creek continue its murmuring course through limestone and switchgrass, and let the bur oak grow wise upon the green lawn;

and may she who planted him sit one day in his mossy shade and, to the sound of the waters, write thoughts both lofty and joyful.