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Portrait of the Artist as a Lone Tree

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Fly by night

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So long ago, when hope was gone for good,
Id sleep alone;
and having nothing better to believe,
went all unknown
in dreams, where some escape was found from rage,
all sad and lost;
since nothing ever came to end my pain,
at any cost,
for hope had flown.

It seemed my life was coming to an end;
sad fragments sang
a siren song appealing to my mind,
that soothed the pang -
then over fields familiar I would fly,
with beating wing;
until, on waking, I would rather die
than bitter sing
my mad harangue.


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