74
THE TALKING OAK.
xl.
These knotted knees of mine,
And found, and kiss'd the name she found,
And sweetly murmur'd thine.
xli.
And down my surface crept.
My sense of touch is something coarse,
But I believe she wept.
xlii.
She glanced across the plain;
But not a creature was in sight:
She kiss'd me once again.
xliii.
That, trust me on my word,
Hard wood I am, and wrinkled rind,
But yet my sap was stirr'd: