THE GIFTS OF THE OAK

‘ There needs no crown to mark the forest's king.’

Thus, long ago thou sang'st the sound-heart tree

Sacred to sovereign Jove, and dear to thee

Since first, a venturous youth with eyes of spring,—

Whose pilgrim-staff each side put forth a wing,—

Beneath the oak thou lingeredst lovingly

To crave, as largess of his majesty,

Firm-rooted strength, and grace of leaves that sing.

He gave; we thank him! Graciousness as grave,

And power as easeful as his own he gave;

Long broodings rich with sun, and laughters kind;

And singing leaves, whose later bronze is dear

As the first amber of the budding year,—

Whose voices answer the autumnnal wind.