AN OAK

By John Gould Fletcher

Hoar mistletoe

Hangs in clumps

To the twisted boughs

Of this lonely tree.

Beneath its roots I often thought treasure was buried:

For the roots had enclosed a circle.

But when I dug beneath them,

I could only find great black ants

That attacked my hands.

When at night I have the nightmare,

I always see the eyes of ants

Swarming from a mouldering box of gold.