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OAK IN AUTUMN.
��OLD oak ! old oak ! my only one,
Round which the poet's mesh I twine, When rosy wakes the joyous sun,
Or, wearied, sinks at day's decline, I see the frost-king here and there,
Choosing some leaflet for his own, Or pointing with proud finger where
He soon shall rear the usurper's throne.
Too soon ! too soon ! in crimson bright,
Cold mockery of thy woe, he'll flout, And proudly climb thy topmost height,
To hang his flaunting signal out ; While thou, all shuddering at thy fall,
Shalt stand with seam'd and naked bark, Like banner-staff, so tall and straight,
His ruthless victory to mark.
I, too, old friend, when thou art gone, Will pensive to my casement go,
�� �
