Soft sway the leaves of the willow tree fair, Its reeds are thus gentle, bended in prayer. No switch shall be crafted from branch, stalk, or bark. Its canopy waits, respite from the dark. So, too, I demand, the Physician must be. His words whisper soft as breeze through a tree. From the white spring flower to the depths of his root, His wisdom is pure, his healing absolute.
