The Oak-Wood

Tree behind tree they stand;
Their slavish roots roll through the ground
And veined like the flat ivy's hand
Their heavy boughs lean out around.

Is it not not thus and thus
The branched veins issuing from the heart
Like tentacles of an octopus
Go up and down through every part?

How many saps have sunk?
How many more shall yet run fresh
Till these trees too like this dead trunk
Shall turn to touchwood, soft as flesh?
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