His own hands gave the thirsty roots to drink.
In spring the first pale growth of tender green
Thrilled him with scarcely less delight than mine
At my babe's earliest glance of answering love.
Daily he fed the tame free birds that went
Singing among its boughs; he tended it,
He watched, he cherished, yea he talked to it,
As though it had a soul. God gave to him
Two daughters, he was wont to say—one mute,
And one who spake, the oak tree and myself.