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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=396233" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>To An Oak At Newstead</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Young Oak! when I planted thee deep in the ground,<br>I hoped that thy days would be longer than mine;<br>That thy dark&#8209;waving branches would flourish around,<br>And ivy thy trunk with its mantle entwine.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Such, such was my hope, when in infancy's<br>On the land of my fathers I rear'd thee with pride;<br>They are past, and I water thy stem with my tears,<br>Thy decay not the weeds that surround thee can hide.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I left thee, my Oak, and, since that fatal hour,<br>A stranger has dwelt in the hall of my sire; <br>Till manhood shall crown me, not mine is the power,<br>But his, whose neglect may have bade thee expire.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Oh! hardy thou went--even now little care<br>Might revive thy young head, and thy wounds gently heal:<br>But thou went not fated affection to share--<br>For who could suppose that a stranger would feel!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Ah, droop not, my Oak! lift thy head for a while;<br>Ere twice round yon Glory this planet shall run,<br>The hand of thy Master will teach thee to smile,<br>When Infancy's years of probation are done. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Oh, live then, my Oak! tow'r aloft from the weeds,<br>That clog thy young growth, and assist thy decay,<br>For still in thy bosom are life's early seeds,<br>And still may thy branches their beauty display.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Oh! yet, if maturity's years may be thine,<br>Though I shall lie low in the cavern of death, <br>On thy leaves yet the day&#8209;beam of ages may shine,<br>Uninjured by time, or the rude winter's breath.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">For centuries still may thy boughs lightly wave<br>O'er the Gorse of thy lord in thy canopy laid; <br>While the branches thus gratefully shelter his grave,<br>The chief who survives may recline in thy shade.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And as he, with his boys, shall revisit this spot,<br>He will tell them is whispers more softly to tread.<br>Oh! surely, by these I shall ne'er be forgot;<br>Remembrance still hallows the dust of the dead.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And here, will they say, when in life's glowing prime,<br>Perhaps he has pour'd forth his young simple lay,<br>And here must he sleep, till the moments of time<br>Are lost in the hours of Eternity's day.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Byron">Byron</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=396233" data-title="To An Oak At Newstead de Byron" data-description="Young Oak! when I planted thee deep in the ground,
I hoped that thy days would be longer than mine;
That thy dark&#8209;waving branches would flourish around,
And ivy thy trunk with its mantle entwine.

Such, such was my hope, when in infancy's
On..."></div>
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