The oak in later August,

Before his leaves are strewn,

And the sky is blue as June,

Trembles from trunk to branches

For frosts that will be soon

From the valleys of the moon!

For breezes blown in August

Veer north with cold and rain;

And the oak tree sighs and shivers

For lights that shift and wane:

As a strong man sees the specters

Of age, disease and pain,

The oak flings up to heaven

His branches in the rain.

September comes, September

Spreads out a sky that chills.

The owl hoots and the cricket

Beside the roadway shrills,

And on the stricken hills.

But the oak tree, the oak tree

Still flaunts his shining leaves.

No change has come but swallows

Who fled the summer eaves!

But when October breezes,

And cold November gales

Descend upon the oak tree

What strength of him avails,

Grown naked to the tempest,

For life that sleeps and fails?

O oak tree, oak tree,

The winter snow prevails!

It cannot be your branches,

It is the wind that wails!