208 ARBOR DAY 



THE OAK* 



BY JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL 



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. 

 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! 

 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 upward shoots? 



Lord! all thy works are lessons; each contains 



Some emblem of man's all-containing soul; 

 Shall he make fruitless all thy glorious pains, 



Delving within thy grace, an eyeless mole? 

 Make me the least of thy Dodona grove, 



Cause me some message of thy truth to bring, 

 Speak but a word through me, nor let thy love 



Among my boughs disdain to perch and sing. 



*By permission of the publishers, Houghton, Mifflin & Co. 



