TALKS ON TREES 141 



And when terror and shrinking and dreary, unnam- 



able pain 

 Drew over me out of the merciless miles of the plain, 



Oh, now, unafraid, I am fain to face 



The vast sweet visage of space. 

 To the edge of the wood I am drawn, I am drawn, 

 Where the gray beach glimmering runs, as a belt 

 of the dawn, 



For a mete and a mark 

 To the forest dark: 



So: 



Affable live-oak, leaning low, 

 Thus with your favor soft, with a reverent hand 

 (Not lightly touching your person, lord of the 



land!) 



Bending your beauty aside, with a step I stand 

 On the firm-packed sand, 



Free 



By a world of marsh that borders a world of sea. 

 ********* 



TALKS ON TREES* 



BY OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES 



From The Autocrat of the Break jast Table 

 DON'T you want to hear me talk trees a little now ? 

 That is one of my specialties. 



* By permission of Houghton, Mifflin & Co, 



