Here lies burned bark, since neglected,
It is chirping, Monarch-fly streams,
Then turns booming, he darts and flees,
There lies felled life, dim and weakened
Like birds, once moving, now halted,
Their feathers, once soft, now grainy,
Their crests, rendered flying, sans breeze,
Within colored displays, painted.
What is man then, but a rebel,
Who kills a bird, and claims greater
Grace in his that moons pale to him?
Flowers fade not with oil petals,
And old Nature fades to painters,
So lies burned bark, now forgotten.
