The Acorn
An acorn swung
On an oak-tree bough;
So long it had hung,
It would fain fall now
To the kindly earth,
That its germ within
Might burst into birth,
And its life begin.
And the autumn came
With its burning hand,
And each leaf grew a flame,
And each bough a brand.
And a worm came up
And began to eat
Though the hard, dry cup
To the acorn sweet.
And the acorn thought,
“I shall soon see now
The life I have sought,
When I fall from the bough;
For the worm gnaws through
Each tendon slight,
That about me grew,
And bound me tight.”
And with dying day
Came the zephyr’s sound;
And the acorn lay
Next morn on the ground;
But its germ was gone
By the worm’s sharp teeth;
And the ground it had won
Was its grave in death.
poem by Francis William Bourdillon
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Related quotes
September Morn
I watch the World around me
As again I hear nature call
For it is the end of summertime
And the awakening of a beautiful fall.
The leaves have changed their colors
The skies became icy white
My heart becomes exceedingly joyful
At Septembers, beautiful sight.
The rustling wind has turned to cold
The leaves have changed to brown
This moment, I pray to hold
As the leaves fall onto the ground.
The squirrels scurry from their trees
The birds have all flown away
It is another September morning
I feel it with each step that I take.
With a cold wind against my back
I journey to a great tree
To pick up the jewels that she left there
An acorn, and a lonely leaf.
I shiver as I walk
With a leaf and acorn in hand
I watch fall as it arrives around me,
So happy is this man.
I then walk up unto my wife
I present her with the leaf and acorn
So happy I am with this fall,
That I give Her my September morn.
Randy L. McClave
poem by Randy McClave
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Food For Thought
The squirrel that finds an acorn,
Does he really know
the power that the acorn has
if let alone to grow?
It grows into a mighty oak
for the squirrel to scamper on,
until the fall arrives once more
when all the leaves are gone.
It's then the powerful acorn
is dug up once again
to repeat the yearly ritual
by our bushy-tailed little friend.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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Understanding
Oh you mighty oak
from the acorn did you spring.
And so you grew slowly
from so small a thing.
Your magnificent stature
brings to mind
how I can hold you
in an acorn I find.
And the beauty of you
I can hold in my hand.
And maybe that's the way
God has planned
to connect my soul
with an oak so tall
that I'll understand
as in all God's things
I am really not that small.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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I've been fighting with Acorn, alongside Acorn, on issues you care about, my entire career.
quote by Barack Obama
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Raven. Christmas Tale, Told By A School-Boy To His Little Brothers And Sisters
Underneath an old oak tree
There was of swine a huge company
That grunted as they crunched the mast
For that was ripe, and fell full fast.
Then they trotted away, for the wind grew high:
One acorn they left, and no more might you spy.
Next came a Raven, that liked not such folly
He belonged, they did say, to the witch Melancholy!
Blacker was he than blackest jet,
Flew low in the rain, and his feathers not wet
He picked up the acorn and buried it straight
By the side of a river both deep and great.
Where then did the Raven go?
He went high and low
Over hill, over dale, did the black Raven go.
Many Autumns, many Springs
Traveled he with wandering wings:
Many summers, many Winters
I can't tell half his adventures.
At length he came back, and with him a She
And the acorn was grown to a tall oak tree.
They built them a nest in the topmost bough,
And young ones they had, and were happy enow.
But soon came a Woodman in leathern guise,
His brow, like a pent-house, hung over his eyes.
He'd an axe in his hand, not a word he spoke,
But with many a hem! and a sturdy stroke,
At length he brought down the poor Raven's own oak.
His young ones were killed; for they could not depart,
And their mother did die of a broken heart.
The boughs from the trunk the Woodman did sever;
And they floated it down on the course of the river.
They sawed it in planks, and its bark they did strip,
And with this tree and others they made a good ship.
The ship, it was launched; but in sight of the land
Such a storm there did rise as no ship would withstand.
It bulged on a rock, and the waves rush'd in fast;
Round and round flew the Raven, and cawed to the blast.
He heard the last shriek of the perishing souls--
See! see! o'er the topmast the mad water rolls!
Right glad was the Raven, and off he went fleet,
And Death riding home on a cloud he did meet,
And he thank'd him again and again for this treat:
They had taken his all; and Revenge it was sweet!
poem by Samuel Taylor Coleridge
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I Am He
I am he,
Spoke the acorn to the tree
Said the flower to the seed
Replied the wind to the breeze
And standing up in awe
Stood an oak tree standing tall
And below his roots did lie
The acorn who did cry
That I am he.
Like the wind who fathers the breeze
Or the flower, who nourishes the seed
To grow up and be like he
I am he.
I am he said the father to the sky
And the stars in the night
To his son that he held
To become like himself
And I am he.
I am he
Said the raven to its young
And the bear to its cub
And the wind to the breeze
That I am he.
And looking up in belief
Lied an acorn from a tree
From which that it had fallen
Knowing he had been calling’
To be like he.
So, I am he
Like the father is the child
And the flower is the seed
The raindropp to the sea
I am he!
And he is me
Replied the oak tree to the seed.
Randy L. McClave
poem by Randy McClave
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Chipmunks Confusion
Chipmunk
Tail held high
Sprints across the street
On the fly -
To get to the other side
His only goal
There to dive
In another hole -
But wait,
Half way across
His small attention span
Gets lost -
The aroma of an acorn
Lingers upon the center line
With just one sweet sniff
He knows what he must find -
Turning
With the street
Several cars
He does meet -
Dodging them all
In and out
Strictly by chance
Blindly following his commanding snout -
Desire rules
Over fear for death's sake
Find the acorn
Whatever it takes -
At length
Circling full around
Back to where he started
In his own abode, under the ground -
Silly
He thinks to self,
That seductive sweet scent
Was the nut, here, on my own home shelf -
... So, back out
Once more he goes
Resuming his daily routine
Of crossing the road -
poem by Smoky Hoss
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The Grave Yard
My heart grows sick before the wide-spread death,
That walks and speaks in seeming life around;
And I would love the corse without a breath,
That sleeps forgotten 'neath the cold, cold ground;
For these do tell the story of decay,
The worm and rotten flesh hide not nor lie;
But this, though dying too from day to day,
With a false show doth cheat the longing eye;
And hide the worm that gnaws the core of life,
With painted cheek and smooth deceitful skin;
Covering a grave with sights of darkness rife,
A secret cavern filled with death and sin;
And men walk o'er these graves and know it not,
For in the body's health the soul's forgot.
poem by Jones Very
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What Lies Ahead
It was a windy day that day
But the apple still fell near its tree
The clock struck zero
A cry filled the room
A son of the past
The father of the future
The distance between two feet
As the clock ticked life away
The ground was opened each day
And seeds dropped quietly in it
Days came and walked away
With the same plot and stale tale
All looked upon the future
Wondering what glory lied ahead
Will I walk on the sky or ask the ground to bury me?
The clock delivered the future as he promised
Each got a basket of past deeds returned
The acorn became a mighty oak
It was a windy day that day
Yet the apple refused to fall far from the tree
All that had gone around
Came around to say hello
The future was here and held glory for some
The future was here and turned off the lights of others
The future is the past hidden in a seed
Today is tomorrow
What do you want to lie ahead?
Dig your ground
Drop your seed
Stand your ground
It will be a windy day that day
But your apple will fall right in your life
And when all you've done around
Comes around to say hello
You'd firmly shake their hands
And say, I've been waiting for you
My whole life long, welcome.
poem by Jenim Dibie
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One Year ago—jots what?
296
One Year ago—jots what?
God—spell the word! I—can't—
Was't Grace? Not that—
Was't Glory? That—will do—
Spell slower—Glory—
Such Anniversary shall be—
Sometimes—not often—in Eternity—
When farther Parted, than the Common Woe—
Look—feed upon each other's faces—so—
In doubtful meal, if it be possible
Their Banquet's true—
I tasted—careless—then—
I did not know the Wine
Came once a World—Did you?
Oh, had you told me so—
This Thirst would blister—easier—now—
You said it hurt you—most—
Mine—was an Acorn's Breast—
And could not know how fondness grew
In Shaggier Vest—
Perhaps—I couldn't—
But, had you looked in—
A Giant—eye to eye with you, had been—
No Acorn—then—
So—Twelve months ago—
We breathed—
Then dropped the Air—
Which bore it best?
Was this—the patientest—
Because it was a Child, you know—
And could not value—Air?
If to be "Elder"—mean most pain—
I'm old enough, today, I'm certain—then—
As old as thee—how soon?
One—Birthday more—or Ten?
Let me—choose!
Ah, Sir, None!
poem by Emily Dickinson
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Worm Either Way
If you live along with all the other people
and are just like them, and conform, and are nice
you're just a worm --
and if you live with all the other people
and you don't like them and won't be like them and won't conform
then you're just the worm that has turned,
in either case, a worm.
The conforming worm stays just inside the skin
respectably unseen, and cheerfully gnaws away at the heart of life,
making it all rotten inside.
The unconforming worm -- that is, the worm that has turned --
gnaws just the same, gnawing the substance out of life,
but he insists on gnawing a little hole in the social epidermis
and poking his head out and waving himself
and saying: Look at me, I am not respectable,
I do all the things the bourgeois daren't do,
I booze and fornicate and use foul language and despise your honest man.--
But why should the worm that has turned protest so much?
The bonnie bonnie bourgeois goes a-whoring up back streets just the same.
The busy busy bourgeois imbibes his little share
just the same
if not more.
The pretty pretty bourgeois pinks his language just as pink
if not pinker,
and in private boasts his exploits even louder, if you ask me,
than the other.
While as to honesty, Oh look where the money lies!
So I can't see where the worm that has turned puts anything over
the worm that is too cunning to turn.
On the contrary, he merely gives himself away.
The turned worm shouts. I bravely booze!
the other says. Have one with me!
The turned worm boasts: I copulate!
the unturned says: You look it.
You're a d----- b----- b----- p----- bb-----, says the worm that's turned.
Quite! says the other. Cuckoo!
poem by David Herbert Lawrence
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Among All Lovely Things My Love Had Been
AMONG all lovely things my Love had been;
Had noted well the stars, all flowers that grew
About her home; but she had never seen
A glow-worm, never one, and this I knew.
While riding near her home one stormy night
A single glow-worm did I chance to espy;
I gave a fervent welcome to the sight,
And from my horse I leapt; great joy had I.
Upon a leaf the glow-worm did I lay,
To bear it with me through the stormy night:
And, as before, it shone without dismay;
Albeit putting forth a fainter light.
When to the dwelling of my Love I came,
I went into the orchard quietly;
And left the glow-worm, blessing it by name,
Laid safely by itself, beneath a tree.
The whole next day, I hoped, and hoped with fear;
At night the glow-worm shone beneath the tree;
I led my Lucy to the spot, 'Look here,'
Oh! joy it was for her, and joy for me!
poem by William Wordsworth
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The Wife A-Lost
1 Since I noo mwore do zee your fe{'a}ce,
Up ste{'a}rs or down below,
I'll zit me in the lwonesome ple{'a}ce,
Where flat-bough'd beech do grow;
Below the beeches' bough, my love,
Where you did never come,
An' I don't look to meet ye now,
As I do look at hwome.
Since you noo mwore be at my zide,
In walks in zummer het,
I'll goo alwone where mist do ride,
Drough trees a-drippèn wet;
Below the ra{'i}n-wet bough, my love,
Where you did never come,
An' I don't grieve to miss ye now,
As I do grieve at hwome.
Since now bezide my dinner-bwoard
Your va{'i}ce do never sound,
I'll eat the bit I can avword,
A-vield upon the ground;
Below the darksome bough, my love,
Where you did never dine,
An' I don't grieve to miss ye now,
As I at hwome do pine.
Since I do miss your va{'i}ce an' fe{'a}ce
In pra{'y}er at eventide,
I'll pray wi' woone sad va{'i}ce vor gre{'a}ce
To goo where you do bide;
Above the tree an' bough, my love,
Where you be gone avore,
An' be a-w{'a}itèn vor me now,
To come vor evermwore.
poem by William Barnes
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The Elf Singing
An Elf sat on a twig,
He was not very big,
He sang a little song,
He did not think it wrong;
But he was on a Wizard's ground,
Who hated all sweet sound.
Elf, Elf,
Take care of yourself.
He's coming behind you,
To seize you and bind you
And stifle you song.
The Wizard! The Wizard!
He changes his shape
In crawling along--
An ugly old ape,
A poisonous lizard,
A spotted spider,
A wormy glider
The Wizard! The Wizard!
He's up on the bough
He'll bite through your gizzard,
He's close to you now!
The Elf went on with his song,
It grew more clear and strong;
It lifted him into air,
He floated singing away,
With rainbows in his hair;
While the Wizard-Worm from his creep
Mad a sudden leap,
Fell down into a hole,
And, are his magic word he could say,
Was eaten up by a Mole.
poem by William Allingham
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The (f) Rying Woman....
to pry upon his weakness and to discover
some artifacts from his house is her past time
and every hour when there is a break from the
wanton hours and the monotonous menu of the day
she opens the usual window and watch what the
worm is doing inside the terrarium
she records the possibility that this can be a landmark
of history and significant for what others say as a phenomenon
other people's lives matter
and sometimes the worm that looks at her too asks: why?
the worm, and she does not know this, is also prying upon her
her shrinking breasts, her skin that looks like dry tobacco leaf
her life that to the worm has become more of a raisin
stuffed inside a boxed, with a history of having been dried by the sun
the worm is fair though, in its latest description
she is still sweet though neutral in smell, and deserves still to be liked to be eaten someday
p.s. the worm remarks, kids will like her.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Time Decides
an acorn contains the universe,
a moth contains the night.
the flicker and flame
of small twigs burning
returns light to the stars.
the rumble of distant thunder
in every leaf that falls.
a prayer held in every
dropp of rain... a baby
born in the face of
every mountain's movement...
the depth of love raging
beneath the snows of winter....
death, or spring..... time decides....
each has it's own cup!
each has it's own flame!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Part 4: The fish saves the worm
The big-mouth fish, snatched the worm.
As the worm was afraid; a small piece of him,
was left, on the sharp object.
The fish cuddle him, in his mouth.
Swimming as fast as he can;
to make it, close to the shore.
The fish, spit him out, on the land.
As the worm landed, he look toward the fish.
And said, ' thank you for not eating me? '
I wish you well, the fish said. Take care!
As the worm grind his way, toward a new place.
Knowing this ain't his home, the ground was moist.
He drilled a hole, and discover a new home.
The End....
poem by Derrick Clark
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The Atheist And The Acorn
Methinks this World is oddly made,
And ev'ry thing's amiss,
A dull presuming Atheist said,
As stretch'd he lay beneath a Shade;
And instanced in this:
Behold, quoth he, that mighty thing,
A Pumpkin, large and round,
Is held but by a little String,
Which upwards cannot make it spring,
Or bear it from the Ground.
Whilst on this Oak, a Fruit so small,
So disproportion'd, grows;
That, who with Sence surveys this All,
This universal Casual Ball,
Its ill Contrivance knows.
My better Judgment wou'd have hung
That Weight upon a Tree,
And left this Mast, thus slightly strung,
'Mongst things which on the Surface sprung,
And small and feeble be.
No more the Caviller cou'd say,
Nor farther Faults descry;
For, as he upwards gazing lay,
An Acorn, loosen'd from the Stay,
Fell down upon his Eye.
Th' offended Part with Tears ran o'er,
As punish'd for the Sin:
Fool! had that Bough a Pumpkin bore,
Thy Whimseys must have work'd no more,
Nor Scull had kept them in.
poem by Anne Kingsmill Finch
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Beloved, Let Us Once More Praise The Rain
Beloved, let us once more praise the rain.
Let us discover some new alphabet,
For this, the often praised; and be ourselves,
The rain, the chickweed, and the burdock leaf,
The green-white privet flower, the spotted stone,
And all that welcomes the rain; the sparrow too,—
Who watches with a hard eye from seclusion,
Beneath the elm-tree bough, till rain is done.
There is an oriole who, upside down,
Hangs at his nest, and flicks an orange wing,—
Under a tree as dead and still as lead;
There is a single leaf, in all this heaven
Of leaves, which rain has loosened from its twig:
The stem breaks, and it falls, but it is caught
Upon a sister leaf, and thus she hangs;
There is an acorn cup, beside a mushroom
Which catches three drops from the stooping cloud.
The timid bee goes back to the hive; the fly
Under the broad leaf of the hollyhock
Perpends stupid with cold; the raindark snail
Surveys the wet world from a watery stone...
And still the syllables of water whisper:
The wheel of cloud whirs slowly: while we wait
In the dark room; and in your heart I find
One silver raindrop,—on a hawthorn leaf,—
Orion in a cobweb, and the World.
poem by Conrad Potter Aiken
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The Dog, Leaf And Worm
THERE is this dog
and it lives a dog's life
it's life has always been
all for the bone.
THERE is this leaf
true to its being a leaf
lives the short life
destined to fall
blown away
rot or burned.
There is this worm
it burrows itself
in that cold and damp
and then
returned to
its humus origin
BUT there is this fish that
i know
a gold fish that swims
against the tide of
the Yellow River
jumps higher
than the barrier
cliff and
transforms itself
into
a Red Dragon
THE dog, worm
and leaf
do not believe this
They all call me
a story teller.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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