The baby held it in his hand,
An acorn green and small,
He toyed with it, he tossed it high,
And then he let it fall!
He sought for it, and sorely wept,
Or did his mother know
(Though sweet she kissed and clasped her boy)
What loss had grieved him so.
Then he was borne to other lands,
And there he grew to man,
And wrought his best, and did his most,
And lived as heroes can.
But in old age it came to pass
He trod his native shore,
Yet did not know the pleasant fields
Where he had played before.
Beneath a spreading oak he sat,
A wearied man and old,
And said,—“I feel a strange content
My inmost heart enfold.
“As if some sweet old secret wish
Was secretly fulfilled,
As if I traced the plan of life
Which God Himself has willed!
“Oh, bonnie tree which shelters me,
Where summer sunbeams glow,
I’ve surely seen thee in my dreams!—
Why do I love thee so?”
Isabella Fyvie Mayo.
