I glance upon the lonely oak,
The patriarch of the wood,
And think, “He’ll live through my brief day,
He through my father’s stood.”
I fondly kiss the little child,
And, kissing, think, “Good-bye!
I’m giving up my place to you.
You bloom; ’tis mine to die.”
Thus every day, thus every hour,
I’m wont with thought to spend,