Classic Poem

See the grey silver of the oak-boughs,
As they swarm up the hill-slope
And down towards the sea.
The branches twist and twine one over the other,
And the trunks, with the growth of saplings,
Are misshapen and crooked.
The Atlantic winds
Have smoothed them and silvered them,
And then have added the beauty
Time puts upon the work of the silversmith
Carved centuries ago.

But was it for this confusion of boughs,
This profusion of locking twig,
This mingling of leaves,
One twisted tree with another,
That the acorn fell and took root?
Was this the hope in the seed?
Must the white sails be spun in vain for the keel?
Must the house lack the beam and the roof-tree?

I must have space for my branches,
A field for my roots:
Or men will destroy me!