THE TALKING OAK.
69
xx.
A baby-germ, to when
The maiden blossoms of her teens
Could number five from ten.
xxi.
(And hear me with thine ears,)
That, tho' I circle in the grain
Five hundred rings of years—
xxii.
Did never creature pass
So slightly, musically made,
So light upon the grass:
xxiii.
To make the greensward fresh,
I hold them exquisitely knit,
But far too spare of flesh."