I was a warrior,
When, long ago,
Arrows of Dogwood
Flew from the bow.
Passers-by, nowadays,
Go up and down,
Not one remembering
My old renown.
Yet when the Autumn sun
Colours the trees,
Should you come seeking me,
Know me by these:
Bronze leaves and crimson leaves,
Soon to be shed;
Dark little berries,
On stalks turning red.