Oh, dear poet, we have a saying "there's not a stone of my age rolling", but since you mentioned a tree there was time you "surged like the sea at every blast", your "boughs and leaves would raise a thunderous uproar". Now "should you break what's to be done?" There's time for everything, I suppose, but better do not break and "fall asunder," because, as I quote from our Georgian poet's story "The Withered Beech," there's a message of hope in the end: "... the withered beech broods over himself, over his past, present and future; sorrow seems to have eaten deep into his heart. Now and then he gazes down at a tiny shoot that has sprung from one of his roots; the shoot is only waiting for the sun and rain, and then it will grow. This is the only comfort of the withered beech."

Superb poem, dear poet, got me right here!