Is but an image of my heart;—the storm—
The storm of life, doth make us such at last!
Farewell, old oak! I leave thee to the wind,
And go to struggle with the chafing tide—
Soon to the dust thy form shall be resigned,
And I would sleep thy crumbling limbs beside.
Thy memory will pass; thy sheltering shade,
Will weave no more its tissue o'er the sod;
And all thy leaves, ungathered in the glade,
Shall, by the reckless hoof of time, be trod.