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Oh, you and I, old oak, beneath the leaden skies
Of waning autumn, shall hold our ways together;
For the hermit-thrush departs, and our fickle summer flies
Before the hoary breath of sterner weather.


Old oak forlorn and mournful, together we shall know
A calm white death--the cold moon riding by,
The silent winter-sleep beneath the soundless snow,
The still companionship of starry sky.


O mournful tree, why yearn with suppliant arms to hold
The migrant bird? Why weep with windy grief?
Why cling with great gaunt hands to the hollow charms, the cold
And faded love of the last palsied leaf?


Mourn not; for we shall know again the summer sun,
New greener leaves, the vagrant bird, and the gleams
Of bees that nuzzle the buds when the rains of April run.
Grieve not; for now is the time for quiet dreams.