Page:Pocahontas, and Other Poems.djvu/304

 OAK IN AUTUMN.

��OLD oak ! old oak ! my only one,

Round which the poet's mesh I twine, When rosy wakes the joyous sun,

Or, wearied, sinks at day's decline, I see the frost-king here and there,

Choosing some leaflet for his own, Or pointing with proud finger where

He soon shall rear the usurper's throne.

Too soon ! too soon ! in crimson bright,

Cold mockery of thy woe, he'll flout, And proudly climb thy topmost height,

To hang his flaunting signal out ; While thou, all shuddering at thy fall,

Shalt stand with seam'd and naked bark, Like banner-staff, so tall and straight,

His ruthless victory to mark.

I, too, old friend, when thou art gone, Will pensive to my casement go,

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