Grown old and grey	my ground having stood
Gnarled and twisted	tormented limbs
Darkened by drear	drizzle of October.
My leaves lay dead	like shreds of youth
I grew greenly	a growing sapling
When England won	was homeland new.
Now I have lived	long past the span
Of my kindred	a king in age.
Apple yellow	was my young fruit,
But like England	bereft of power,
I bear no fruit,	a fallen king.
The woeful wolf	wails sadly,
Howling horror	on heroes feats.
The black raven	from bones tear flesh.
England's fallen	fell beasts devour,
The warriors who	warded my land.
Night like a prayer	nightmare covers.
Doom of the men	who death has spared,
Heirs to the land	their long-fathers won,
Pursued by fiends	pass from my ken.