His hut was reared; a tall full-foliaged oak
O'ershadowed it. 'Tis not so long agone
Since he was here to comfort, help and heal,
Yet now no earthly trace of him remains.
Spring freshets from the hills have washed away
The last wrecked fragments of his hermitage,
And though I pleaded hard, I could not save
The oak, his dear dumb daughter, from the axe,
Albeit 'twas she preserved him unto us.
Forgive me, sir, my chatter wearies you,