Henry Alford

On The Aged Oak At Oakley, Somerset.

I was a young fair tree: Each spring with quivering green My boughs were clad; and far Down the deep vale, a light Shone from me on the eyes Of those who past,--a light That told of sunny days, And blossoms and blue sky: For I was ever first Of all the grove to hear The soft voice under ground Of the warm--working spring; And ere my brethren stirred Their sheathed buds, the kine, And the kine's keeper, came Slow up the valley--path, And laid them underneath My cool and rustling leaves; And I could feel them there As in the quiet shade They stood, with tender thoughts, That past along their life Like wings on a still lake, Blessing me;--and to God, The blessèd God, who cares For all my little leaves, Went up the silent praise; And I was glad, with joy Which life of labouring things Ill knows,--the joy that sinks Into a life of rest. Ages have fled since then: But deem not my pierced trunk And scanty leafage serves No high behest; my name Is sounded far and wide: And in the Providence That guides the steps of men, Hundreds have come to view My grandeur in decay; And there hath passed from me A quiet influence Into the minds of men: The silver head of age, The majesty of laws, The very name of God, And holiest things that are, Have won upon the heart Of humankind the more, For that I stand to meet With vast and bleaching trunk The rudeness of the sky.