Within a quiet glade where whispers of the breeze play,
Stands the Poet Tree, with boughs which sway.
Its limbs entwined in verses wild and free,
Where leaves of parchment wrestle with poetry.

A gentle soul, it sings to the sky ever so high.
Its roots dig deep in earth's embrace to spy,
On tales of love and loss, of joy and plight.
It gathers wisdom from the searching moonlight.

Upon branches bent like quills, it scribes the day.
In hues of green, it weaves a woven tale on display,
Of sonnets soft, with ballads bold and free,
...