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Poem by Francis William Bourdillon
An acorn swung On an oak-tree bough; So long it had hung, It would fain fall now To the kindly earth, That its germ within Might burst into birth, And its life begin. And the autumn came With its burning hand, And each leaf grew a flame, And each bough a brand. And a worm came up And began to eat Though the hard, dry cup To the acorn sweet. And the acorn thought, “I shall soon see now The life I have sought, When I fall from the bough; For the worm gnaws through Each tendon slight, That about me grew, And bound me tight.” And with dying day Came the zephyr’s sound; And the acorn lay Next morn on the ground; But its germ was gone By the worm’s sharp teeth; And the ground it had won Was its grave in death.
Francis William Bourdillon
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