The Old Oak

Ancient oak in the winter cold,What thy comfort now thou art old?

Ay, I am an ancient oak,Hollowed deep by levin stroke,Boughs by wind and winter broke,Leaves that burgeon few and smallAnd with early frost-bites fall.

Troubled, too, by mortal hands,Lie defaced my happy lands,Till to-day there scarcely stands,Where my lonely eyes can see,Blossom, bush, or brother tree.

But no tree robust and wholeHas, like me, within its boleHouse that holds a singing soul—Dryad soul that in the night,When the friendly stars invite,

Tells me of the brooks at playWhere no water flows to-day,Sings of buds and birds of MayWhere the dusty highways runAnd the chimmeys cloud the sun.

Then I dream of ploughs and sheaves,Bees and nests and scarlet leaves,Morning stars and moonlit eves—And I feel not winter cold,And I know not I am old.

Heart of mine, as thine, O tree,Houseth dryad Memory!