The tall Oak, towering to the skies, The fury of the wind defies, From age to age, in virtue strong. Inured to stand, and suffer wrong.

The oak, when living, monarch of the wood; The English oak, which, dead, commands the flood.

Old noted oak! I saw thee in a mood Of vague indifference; and yet with me Thy memory, like thy fate, hath lingering stood For years, thou hermit, in the lonely sea Of grass that waves around thee!

There grewe an aged tree on the greene; A goodly Oake sometime had it bene, With armes full strong and largely displayed, But of their leaves they were disarayde The bodie bigge, and mightely pight, Thoroughly rooted, and of wond'rous hight; Whilome had bene the king of the field, And mochell mast to the husband did yielde, And with his nuts larded many swine: But now the gray mosse marred his rine; His bared boughes were beaten with stormes, His toppe was bald, and wasted with wormes, His honour decayed, his brauches sere.

Those green-robed senators of mighty woods, Tall oaks, branch-charmed by the earnest stars, Dream, and so dream all night without a stir.

Tall oaks from little acorns grow.