Poem: The Angel of the Oak

The wind sang low

At the window in the hall door.

Bless me! exclaimed in a space between rooms,

Could that be a visitant there?

It was as if a gust of air

Had blow aside the wayward view;

The oak enthroned among its leaves

The aspect of a creature newly made.

The man of the house had made his gloom

Edge out the air, and in his room

The child who could dispel it.

While I stood here and watched the tree,

My mind contrived to fell it.

And what is such a vision, after all?

But what of those who’ve wooed and won

A sighting, a striving, a word, or a crown?

His skirts, silken and heavy,

Suddenly rustled and heaved in the wind;

There was no need to speak.

Rocking on my heels like a preacher, I said,

I won’t bow down to you, tree, 

But I will love you, 

For all that is good reflects the Good,

Is all we can know of the Good.

With a smile of forbearance the angel

passed down its hands and parted wide the leaves:

There in the space the heavens quaked.

The branches were upheld like candelabras.

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