Poems (Van Rensselaer)/The Old Oak
THE OLD OAK
Ancient oak in the winter cold,
What thy comfort now thou art old?
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 small
And with early frost-bites fall.
Hollowed deep by levin stroke,
Boughs by wind and winter broke,
Leaves that burgeon few and small
And 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.
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 whole
Has, like me, within its bole
House that holds a singing soul—
Dryad soul that in the night,
When the friendly stars invite,
Has, like me, within its bole
House that holds a singing soul—
Dryad soul that in the night,
When the friendly stars invite,
Tells me of the brooks at play
Where no water flows to-day,
Sings of buds and birds of May
Where the dusty highways run
And the chimmeys cloud the sun.
Where no water flows to-day,
Sings of buds and birds of May
Where the dusty highways run
And 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.
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!
Houseth dryad Memory!