A BOOK OF SONNETS - Eliot's Oak

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A BOOK OF SONNETS: Eliot's Oak

 

Thou ancient oak! whose myriad leaves are loud
With sounds of unintelligible speech,
Sounds as of surges on a shingly beach,
Or multitudinous murmurs of a crowd;
With some mysterious gift of tongues endowed,
Thou speakest a different dialect to each;
To me a language that no man can teach,
Of a lost race, long vanished like a cloud.
For underneath thy shade, in days remote,
Seated like Abraham at eventide
Beneath the oaks of Mamre, the unknown
Apostle of the Indians, Eliot, wrote
His Bible in a language that hath died
And is forgotten, save by thee alone.

 

 

 

 

Content of A BOOK OF SONNETS: Eliot's Oak [Henry Wadsworth Longfellow's poem collection: Birds of Passage]

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