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Normale Version: THE OAK.
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THE OAK.

Say not that always on immortal things
Did the old Greeks their lyric thoughts bestow;
Not always from his fountain's highest flow
Called they the steed with cloud-surpassing wings.
But the sweet voice of Heliconian springs
Came leaping to their hearts in plains below ;
Under some oak: and they the Gods let go ;
Hymning his shade to their memorial strings.
Few are they now on the impatient earth,
Those harborous giants, sons of many days;
For time bears hardly on heroic birth ;
Bringing vile use to eke his cold decays :
Or hurls them down for winter's boisterous mirth;
But birds and poets still find some to praise.