Classic Poem

Far in the wood I found a vine, so sweet
Of flower and leaf that, loving it, I stayed
To learn its secret. Thick around its feet
Grew thorny briers, and tangled saplings made
On every side of it too dark a shade.
One tendril by a dead branch held. The rest
Were folded like proud arms upon its breast.

The rough wind beat it down; it did not break,
But, lying low until the storm went by,
Lifted its head again. Still it would take
No help; but, shaking off with scornful eye
The dust, rose slowly, looking to the sky,
Borne up by hidden forces of its own,
And stood again erect, a vine, alone.

Far in the wood I whispered then, afraid
The question showed not all my love, " O vine,
Brave vine, so sweet and yet so strong, what made
It easy unto thee? No sun can shine
To warm thee in this cold, unwholesome shade.
Why standest thou apart from all the rest,
Thy slender proud arms folded on thy breast? "
Filling the wood, this subtile whisper then
My reverent listening heard:
" My love, the Oak,
Has died. Never before his name to men
Who, idly questioning, passed by, I spoke.
But thou, — thou lov'st like me; thy secret woke
My own. Thou know'st to a less lordly thing
The tendrils torn from oaks will never cling. "