THE OAK
Reading edition
O blessed and thrice blessed evermore To grow old in the chaste immutable silence, Thinking thine own thoughts! At the golden door Of thine own glade the quiet sunbeams pour, And thou look’st out across the hazy plain From the cool greenness of thine ancient throne: Where is the biting winter? neither pain Nor vain regrets in thy deep heart remain, Nor dost thou count the weary drooping years In slow and miserly cycle one by one. 1913.