I dreamed that I was dead. The years went by:
The world forgot that such a man as I
Had lived and written, although other names
Were hailed with homage, in their turn to die.
Out of my grave a giant beech upgrew.
Its roots transpierced my body, through and through,
My substance fed its growth. From many lands
Men came in troops that noble tree to view.
’Twas sacred to my memory and fame—
But Julian Hawthorne’s wittol daughter came
And with untidy finger daubed upon
Its bark a reeking record of her name.