THE SET THAT WILL BE SEEN

That tree whose bough we swung beneath when sweetnesses surrounded us, and every sweet was fresh as dew and every taste entirely new; the world was ours to play with, then; across the day were curtains hung which, drawing back one by one as though upon a stage, amazed us with what we saw lit in brilliant light beyond - oh yes that tree, its leaves a roof, green across our childhood days, and in its shade we played, and sweetnesses surrounded us.
I cannot find that tree again. There's nothing new to taste and when the curtains are drawn back, I've seen each set before - or so I think. But one I know is waiting, and it won't be bathed in any light; there will be nothing there to see, save sighs and shadows and sorrows cloaked in tears.