And there upon the crystal lake, grew through the waters, a great oak.
Its amber boughs, bowed aloft, as golden leaves raised and brushed the sky.
Their green mountains, tipped in snow, stood far off high, around the valley,
But here in the heart of the earth, in pulchritude, was lasting peace.
Not a soul disturbed the water, for it carried in its stillness,
That young regal nobility, akin to ancient dynasties.
Alone hung that solitary mast, sails flickering in the noon.
The brightness of the sun grew brilliant on the ice, the sea, the leaves.
The eaves of this, last of the ancients, held also certain stillness,
Though every subtle hour, a single hair would flirt, remiss of laud.
It would, not when seen, nor when ignored, but that instant in between.
In the moment, it would be passed, one glittering shield twitters.
And unto crescendo, goes imagination and addling,
For alas, my soul has not gained, that enlightened state, to have seen,
The beauty, of the tree, upon the lake standing, still and serene.
For it was yet bourn, only in likeness upon this prism screen.
So then as the image fades, and I am bereft, of it, to dream.
I then am reminded, of thy country coming, and I believe.