THE OAK

An oak, uprooted by a storm,

Lies reft of majesty and might

Beside the way. Its giant form

Will no more, lunging to the light,

Assail the heavens. There it lies ...

Yet, when its sapless boughs are stirred

By sunset breezes to the skies

A plaint is carried. Then are heard

Aeolian echoes of the past

Evoking bird-songs lilted last

Among green leaves; or grateful cry

Of travellers seeking shade at noon;

Or long-dead lovers' kiss and sigh

Beneath a long-forgotten moon

Theodore Stephanides

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