Classic Poem

When in the stately groves, where thou dost bloom,
I roam and gaze upon thee from below,
I glory in the grandeur thou dost show,
And even my thoughts thy majesty assume.

The storms of ages and the tempests' gloom
Have striven in vain to lay thy glory low,
While starred, serene and wreathed in mistletoe,
Thou giv'st to myriad birds a home or tomb;

And as I mark thy brown and rugged trunk,
That Gallic lances proudly could defy,
I dream of those dead days in leafy June,
When, with white trailing robes and visage shrunk,
The truculent Druids grimly passed thee by
With bleeding victims haloed by the moon!