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 | The Poetical Works of Aubrey De Vere |  |
III.
A wayward child, scarce knowing what he wanted,Ran to one side while all his comrades played,
And in the sunny ground a berry planted:
An olive-tree uprose; and in its shade,
While summer after summer glowed and panted,
That child's descendants sat. The tree decayed:
Then of one polished branch this flute was made,
The sire of all sweet sounds and strains enchanted,
Immortal nurslings of the transient breeze.
That child is dead and gone; that olive now
Is swept away with all its centuries;
Yet this selected fragment of a bough
Survives, and may survive till earth expires
And mortal strains are lost in songs of heavenly choirs.
| The Poetical Works of Aubrey De Vere | |