The Felled Oak

The old oak felled by man is no different from me, Whose fond dreams were shot down, carried off to the sea. By the river, this tree had enduringly stood ‘Til the villager maimed it for need of its wood. Time anon, in its shade I would blissfully lie— Now this solace has died with a thud and a sigh. Once beloved by the birds and caressed by the sun, It is nothing to no one; its glory is gone. In my youth, though I rested or played in its shade, I cared not that its trunk could be hewn by the blade. Now I sit on the stump and reflect on how brief Was the leisure afforded to me before grief. Though cut down by the axe and mistreated by fate, The green shoots of new life will grow out before late; And though time is unkind and man’s caprice is blind, Stronger twigs will branch out, as will hope in my mind. In due course, a much taller, more beautiful tree Will grow strong as the faith which now surges in me And, before I am gone, I will harbor anew The brave dream and old joy which are now out of view. Come one day, by the river, young children will play And will rest by an oak tree much taller than they; But, instead of repeating my errors of old, What I now write they’ll read, though by then I’ll be cold. They will learn of a man who lived there long before And whom Nature had roofed in his prime by the shore: A young man full of dreams, staring up at the sky, Much at peace and content by the oak where he’d lie. The short course of our lives must run out before long, But our memory lingers in rhyme and in song; If the tree and the man both forgotten must be, May posterity cherish these verses from me. Find my poems and published poetry volumes at www.eton-langford.com