There lived an oak tree on the hill,
in a sea of amber weed,
on a lawn of acorn seed,
with its branches firm an still.

Like a light-house it stood tall,
and cast a shadow far down hill,
giving passers by a chill,
as its power made them small.

He had stood there way to long,
he was tired and in need,
and he longed for to be freed,
so he hummed a lonesome song.

It rumbled in the valleys,
whispered through the trees.
It swooped down on the hills,
in a warm and tender breeze.

Then a poppy heard his tune --
oh, her love for him was fierce --
and her fiery heart was pierced,
while she swayed and danced that night,
in June.

Much too young for him, she was --
but delighted for a friend --
a branch he slowly did extend,
to her greenish petal paws.

But her fire burned so deep,
his arms he thus withdrew,
and his love he managed to subdue,
while Poppy cried herself to sleep.

On the morning, there was blood,
on the amber colored hill,
as her heart was strewn about,
around the oak that stood there still.