On the hill there winds a mossy lane
Of which a man who wish to attain
When the eye is weary and heart hardens
They seek a reprieve in Hestia's Gardens
A woman as fair as a woman is strong
A woman stands tall a shadow casts long
Taken through the fire she sees burning still
And she carries her flame up mossy hill
But passion she burns a fire of goodwill
Her fire burns away all sorrows and pains
Sweet summer song brings her spring rains
She gives the flowers sunlight which to bask
Committing herself to a thankless task
The garden withers and dies without her
No one to see it though desolate winter
Never to retire and never to falter
She wanders her gardens free of grief
Escapes into embrace of vine and leaf
There stands in the garden a towering oak
Leaves Browning and branches broke
He stands tall and reaches high
Mighty still, but destined to die
Unless she might, within him provoke
A glimmer of sweetness
A whisper of hope,
And tell him the words he wants spoke
She tends the rows of colours distinct
A rose of white and rose of pink
Means more to her than any could think
She strokes their petals and trims their thorns
Growing happy, but strong come the storms
