The leaves of the black oak linger the winter through
In the woods of the wide Northwest; leech-like they cling
To the branch, and they nowise yield to blight and snow,
Presences dun and mystic; oft is the view
Framed in their subtle richness; often they ring
Horizons else remote as the Long Ago.
The leaves of the black oak bide, and for me their grace
Has a conjuring touch of home, of a dear lost place;
I forget the plains, I behold New England's face.