Weeping Willow

   
      How ridiculous I am made! How utterly ridiculous. All for want of the love of a man, a man somehow held singular above all other men in my infelicitous heart!

    How have I fallen for him? When did this strange new feeling form into an exactness? I am at a loss to say! I only know that an unalienable attachment to him has grown up in my heart. An attachment which, by such time as it was noticed, had matured into a full-fledged tree, a tree with too many branches to cut them all off; a contemptible tree whose nefarious roots are all enwoven into the deepest part of my being, never to be completely dug from my soul.

    I have tried destroying this tree by the fire of my passions, the stubborn immovability of my mind, and the once indomitable force of my will. And yet, when I come to believe I have finally triumphed, I have only to set eyes on him, and there is that blasted tree, untouched and steadfast as ever!

    This tree is not kin to the noble oak, not friend of the lofty Aspen, consort to the stately laurel, nor hand-maiden to the silvery birch. No, it is one of that most introspective and gravely ponderous sort of tree: the Weeping Willow.

      Destined, as it is, to bow ever in upon itself, to sit mournful and alone in its own shadow, it yet will not cease to hope. It will ever yearn to admit that wond'rous other's  presence into it's sheltered world, perchance that it may flower, knowing full well all the time that he will never, and perhaps, can never come.

    O, unhappy hour in which I first set eyes on him I love!