On The Aged Oak At Oakley, Somerset. Poem by Henry Alford

I was a young fair tree:
Each spring with quivering green
My boughs were clad; and far
Down the deep vale, a light
Shone from me on the eyes
Of those who past,--a light
That told of sunny days,
And blossoms and blue sky:
For I was ever first
Of all the grove to hear
The soft voice under ground
Of the warm--working spring;
And ere my brethren stirred
Their sheathed buds, the kine,
And the kine's keeper, came
Slow up the valley--path,
And laid them underneath
My cool and rustling leaves;
And I could feel them there
As in the quiet shade
They stood, with tender thoughts,
That past along their life
Like wings on a still lake,
Blessing me;--and to God,
The blessèd God, who cares
For all my little leaves,
Went up the silent praise;
And I was glad, with joy
Which life of labouring things
Ill knows,--the joy that sinks
Into a life of rest.

Ages have fled since then:
But deem not my pierced trunk
And scanty leafage serves
No high behest; my name
Is sounded far and wide:
And in the Providence
That guides the steps of men,
Hundreds have come to view
My grandeur in decay;
And there hath passed from me
A quiet influence
Into the minds of men:
The silver head of age,
The majesty of laws,
The very name of God,
And holiest things that are,
Have won upon the heart
Of humankind the more,
For that I stand to meet
With vast and bleaching trunk
The rudeness of the sky.