Poems (Van Rensselaer)/The Old Oak

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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 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.
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 May  Where the dusty highways run  And the chimmeys cloud the sun.
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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!
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