196 ARBOR DAY MANUAL. 



THE OAK. 



WHAT gnarled stretch, what depth of shade, is his ! 

 There needs no crown to mark the forest's king ; 

 How in his leaves outshines full summer's bliss ! 



Sun, storm, rain, dew, to him their tribute bring, 

 Which he with such benignant royalty 



Accepts, as overpayeth what is lent; 



All nature seems his vassal proud to be, 



And cunning only for his ornament. 



How towers he, too, amid the billowed snows, 



An unquelled exile from the summer's throne, 

 Whose plain, uncinctured front more kingly shows, 



Now that the obscuring courtier leaves are flown. 

 His boughs make music of the winter air, 



Jeweled with sleet, like some cathedral front 

 Where clinging snow flakes with quaint art repair 



The dints and furrows of time's envious brunt. 



How doth his patient strength the rude March wind 



Persuade to seem glad breaths of summer breeze, 

 And win the soil that fain would be unkind, 



To swell his revenues with proud increase ! 

 He is the gem; and all the landscape wide 



(So doth his grandeur isolate the sense) 

 Seems but the setting, worthless all beside, 



An empty socket, were he fallen thence. 



So, from oft converse with life's wintry gales, 



Should man learn how to clasp with tougher roots 

 The inspiring earth ; how otherwise avails 



The leaf-creating sap that sunward shoots ? 

 So every year that falls with noiseless flake 



Should fill old scars upon the stormward side, 

 And make hoar age revered for age's sake, 



Not for traditions of youth's leafy pride. 



So, from the pinched soil of a churlish fate, 



True hearts compel the sap of sturdier growth, 

 So between earth and heaven stand simply great 



That these shall seem but their attendants both ; 

 For natures's forces with obedient zeal 



Wait on the rooted faith and oaken will ; 

 As quickly the pretender's cheat they feel, 



And turn mad Pucks to flout and mock him still. 



