IT is gone, the old oak, which, for centuries past, With branches wide-spreading had weather'd the blast, A tree of primeval type! Accurs'd be the axe which was laid to its root! "Sir, it fetch'd," said the factor, "five shillings a foot, And the tree was maturely ripe." | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THREE FRIENDS OF MINE: 5; SONNET by HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW GARDEN DAYS: 6. AUTUMN FIRES by ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON SONG by MARGARET STEELE ANDERSON HOOKER'S ACROSS by GEORGE HENRY BOKER THOMAS A KEMPIS: DE IMITATIONE CHRISTI by RICHARD ROGERS BOWKER BRITANNIA'S PASTORALS: BOOK 2. THE FIFTH SONG by WILLIAM BROWNE (1591-1643) |