something shifted in this place

a different heart somehow

familiar face

sighing high with wind a needlepainted bough

somehow sings a different tune

more sorrow now than wondersweet?

its too much late or is it soon?

in fact it keeps a perfect beat

the tasteful tones as always are arranged

the picture of a sinstained youth

can capture clear

the contour of an aging truth

if he were here

oscar would have understood

how like an artful book this wilde wood

reflects the real the self estranged

the forest isnt the one whos changed