OAK-TREE. 105 



Thou'lt hear no longer. 'Neath sun-lighted clouds, 

 With beating wing, or steady poise aslant, 

 Thou'lt sail no more. 



I needs must mourn for thee ; for I who have 

 Nor fields, nor gather into garner I 

 Bear thee both thanks and love, nor fear, nor hate. 

 And now, farewell ! The falling leaves, ere long, 

 Will give thee decent covering. Till then, 

 Thine own black plumage, which will now no more 

 Glance to the sun, nor flash upon my eyes, 

 Like armour of steeled knight of Palestine, 

 Must be thy pall." 



