Based on Shakespeare’s sonnet II
When a thousand winters have besieged thy bark
And dug deep trenches by thy rooted feet,
Your forest’s green branches, so gaz’d on now,
Will be a tatter’d wood, of small worth held;
Then being ask’d where all their beauty lies,
Where all the treasure of their lusty days,
They will see, within thine own deep sunken eyes,
There dwells long memory and timeless faith.
How more praise deserv’d in thy forest’s keeping
If thou couldst answer – “This fair wood of mine
Shall sum my count, and make known my years –“
Proving trees beauty by overgrowing thine!
They will yet be new-grown when thou are old,
To see their sap warm when thou feel’st it cold.