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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