Alone among Th'Wonders of the congregated field
stands The Old oak whose thirsty, blind roots seek
the coursing Meaning of some deeper, subtler creek
than that rough-ploughing Wound whose Aim whirl-wild
adventures through these miles in twice the length...
Life makes all that exists some portion of its own!
There reigns Th'Nymph whose flowing hair
becomes wonderful foliages, eyes become Dawn,
words turn th'meaning of The Blooming into stares
And Oak... quenched, its great, open, penetrating Mind exists
only as if to turn The Soulless airy Power that twists
throughout Th'Woodlands to some higher, sensual Strength:
There Life rests on the frailest withering barks...
Man's rests on Th'Wonders passing like departing larks.