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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=408423" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Voice in the Wild Oak</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Twelve years ago, when I could face<br>High heaven’s dome with different eyes—<br>In days full-flowered with hours of grace,<br>And nights not sad with sighs—<br>I wrote a song in which I strove<br>To shadow forth thy strain of woe,<br>Dark widowed sister of the grove!—<br>Twelve wasted years ago. <br>But youth was then too young to find<br>Those high authentic syllables,<br>Whose voice is like the wintering wind<br>By sunless mountain fells;<br>Nor had I sinned and suffered then<br>To that superlative degree<br>That I would rather seek, than men,<br>Wild fellowship with thee! </div><div style="margin:10px 0">But he who hears this autumn day<br>Thy more than deep autumnal rhyme,<br>Is one whose hair was shot with grey<br>By Grief instead of Time.<br>He has no need, like many a bard,<br>To sing imaginary pain,<br>Because he bears, and finds it hard,<br>The punishment of Cain. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">No more he sees the affluence<br>Which makes the heart of Nature glad;<br>For he has lost the fine, first sense<br>Of Beauty that he had.<br>The old delight God’s happy breeze<br>Was wont to give, to Grief has grown;<br>And therefore, Niobe of trees,<br>His song is like thine own! </div><div style="margin:10px 0">But I, who am that perished soul,<br>Have wasted so these powers of mine,<br>That I can never write that whole,<br>Pure, perfect speech of thine.<br>Some lord of words august, supreme,<br>The grave, grand melody demands;<br>The dark translation of thy theme<br>I leave to other hands. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Yet here, where plovers nightly call<br>Across dim, melancholy leas—<br>Where comes by whistling fen and fall<br>The moan of far-off seas—<br>A grey, old Fancy often sits<br>And fills thy strong, strange rhyme by fits<br>With awful utterings. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Then times there are when all the words<br>Are like the sentences of one<br>Shut in by Fate from wind and birds<br>And light of stars and sun,<br>No dazzling dryad, but a dark<br>Dream-haunted spirit doomed to be<br>Imprisoned, crampt in bands of bark,<br>For all eternity. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Yea, like the speech of one aghast<br>At Immortality in chains,<br>What time the lordly storm rides past<br>With flames and arrowy rains:<br>Some wan Tithonus of the wood,<br>White with immeasurable years—<br>An awful ghost in solitude<br>With moaning moors and meres. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">And when high thunder smites the hill<br>And hunts the wild dog to his den,<br>Thy cries, like maledictions, shrill<br>And shriek from glen to glen,<br>As if a frightful memory whipped<br>Thy soul for some infernal crime<br>That left it blasted, blind, and stript—<br>A dread to Death and Time! </div><div style="margin:10px 0">But when the fair-haired August dies,<br>And flowers wax strong and beautiful,<br>Thy songs are stately harmonies<br>By wood-lights green and cool—<br>Most like the voice of one who shows<br>Through sufferings fierce, in fine relief,<br>A noble patience and repose—<br>A dignity in grief. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">But, ah! conceptions fade away,<br>And still the life that lives in thee—<br>The soul of thy majestic lay—<br>Remains a mystery!<br>And he must speak the speech divine—<br>The language of the high-throned lords—<br>Who’d give that grand old theme of thine<br>Its sense in faultless words. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">By hollow lands and sea-tracts harsh,<br>With ruin of the fourfold gale,<br>Where sighs the sedge and sobs the marsh,<br>Still wail thy lonely wail;<br>And, year by year, one step will break<br>The sleep of far hill-folded streams,<br>And seek, if only for thy sake<br>Thy home of many dreams.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Henry+Kendall">Henry Kendall</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=408423" data-title="The Voice in the Wild Oak de Henry Kendall" data-description="Twelve years ago, when I could face
High heaven’s dome with different eyes—
In days full-flowered with hours of grace,
And nights not sad with sighs—
I wrote a song in which I strove
To shadow forth thy strain of woe,
Dark widowed sister of ..."></div>
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