The Lone Oak

In distant vale, amid the hills

There stands an oak of old;

No sound of running brook or rill

Is heard from where it grows;


Nor ‘round it sways the greenest fields,

With wildflowers bright and gay.

This oak stands tall and does not yield

To tempests’ gust and sway.


From sapling small, ‘mid drought and flame,

On toward the sun it grew,

Through years of dust, no birds, no rain,

Yet still the time imbued

 

This greatest tree with trunk of strength,

And boughs to bear aloft

Fair verdure deep, and life beneath

The rays of sun so hot.


Had not this oak been battered o’er,

When it was yet so small,

There could not have this refuge grown

In desolation’s maw.

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