True Love by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

I think true love is something like a tree; / The oak, that lifts its branches to the sky. / The woodman's axe may strike it fatally, / Or it may fall, when mighty winds sweep by. / And where it grew, the flowers may bloom instead, / And all may seem as though the tree were dead.

But underneath the grass, and flowers, there lies, / Hid from the gaping world, a tiny root, / A little living germ, that never dies; / And ever and anon its branches shoot / Up through the earth, and mock, and strive to be / The mighty forest king -- the parent tree.

So love may wither, at the hand of Fate, / Or fall beneath the killing winds that blow; / And other loves may spring up, soon or late, / And flowers of forgetfulness may grow, / Over the spot where love once grew instead, / And we may think the old-time passion dead.

And still the little germ lies in the heart, / So closely hidden that it is not known; / And ever and anon its branches start -- / Vain mimics of the passion that has flown. / Though love, once slain, can live not, as of yore, / I think its ghost will haunt us evermore.