There stands the poor Wild Service Tree

Crowded by the oak trees high,

And foiled, by their dark canopy

In her attempt to reach the sky.

But she has fought, she would not hide

Her branches filled the empty space,

And lean towards the clearing wide

With such gentle charm and grade.

A little Cinderella of the woodland fair

Beneath the towering oak's dark domain,

Few have seen her standing there

And fewer still, know her name.

But Hector knows, he from the start

Has known of her struggles to be free,

And he's a soft spot in his heart

For this young Wild Service Tree.

Now, he sits resting in the shade

Of spreading beech, in a reflective mood,

He sees her across the open glade

But whose voices break the solitude?

Some ramblers come, his attention claim

"Oh, what a lovely tree" they cry,

"Please tell us, what is the name

Of she, guarded by those oak trees high?"

Hector smiles, for did he not denote

A touch of admiration in their cry?

He thinks a bit, clears his throat

And rises slowly to give his reply.

"Some call her the Wild Service Tree

Others to Sorbus Torminalis are swayed,

But for me her name has to be

The Little?Princess of the Glade."

She stands shimmering in the autumn sun

As a breeze her red and yellow leaves caress,

The little tree their hearts has won

"Our Princess," they cry, "in her golden dress."

–John Keyse.