An acorn swung <br />On an oak-tree bough; <br />So long it had hung, <br />It would fain fall now <br />To the kindly earth, <br />That its germ within <br />Might burst into birth, <br />And its life begin. <br /> <br />And the autumn came <br />With its burning hand, <br />And each leaf grew a flame, <br />And each bough a brand. <br />And a worm came up <br />And began to eat <br />Though the hard, dry cup <br />To the acorn sweet. <br /> <br />And the acorn thought, <br />“I shall soon see now <br />The life I have sought, <br />When I fall from the bough; <br />For the worm gnaws through <br />Each tendon slight, <br />That about me grew, <br />And bound me tight.” <br /> <br />And with dying day <br />Came the zephyr’s sound; <br />And the acorn lay <br />Next morn on the ground; <br />But its germ was gone <br />By the worm’s sharp teeth; <br />And the ground it had won <br />Was its grave in death.<br /><br />Francis William Bourdillon<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-acorn-2/
