The Oak and the Hill

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When the storm fell'd our oak, and thou, fair wold,Wast seen beyond it, we were slow to takeThe lesson taught, for our old neighbour's sake.We thought thy distant presence wan and cold,And gave thee no warm welcome; for, whene'erWe tried to dream him back into the place,Where late he stood, the giant of his race,'Twas but to lift an eye, and thou wert there,His sad remembrancer, the monumentThat told us he was gone; but thou hast blentThy beauty with our loss so long and well,That, in all future griefs, we may foretellSome lurking good behind each seeming ill,Beyond each fallen tree some fair blue hill.

© Turner Charles (Tennyson)