POEMS. THE TALKING OAK. I. ONCE more the gate behind me falls; II. Beyond the lodge the city lies, Beneath its drift of smoke; And ah! with what delighted eyes I turn to yonder oak! III. For when my passion first began, IV. To yonder oak within the field. V. For oft I talked with him apart, And answered with a voice. VI. Though what he whispered under Heaven None else could understand; I found him garrulously given, A babbler in the land. |