The Old Tree Weeps Poem by Diana Rosser

The old tree weeps, its branches low
bend over a path, winding slow
through tilting, toppling, broken stones
fading remains of treasured bones
hidden where moss and ivy grow.

Here lies John Peachey of Harrow
On which Byron sought long ago
phrases of love, amongst deaths thrones,
the old tree weeps.

Where young Allegra's remains know
that words are not enough to show
the lives that die beneath headstones
she was denied one of her own
her father's sins repaid her, so
the old tree weeps.