Of rosy blush, or yellow hue;
Nor fruits of Autumn, blossom born,
My green and glossy leaves adorn;
Nor murmuring tribes from me derive
The ambrosial amber of the hive;
Yet leave this barren spot to me;
Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree!
Trice twenty summers have I seen
The sky grow bright, the forest green;
And many a wintry wind have stood