O' elder Oak, how thou growest so old?
What ancient yarns thou could spin from each limb.
Wars, drought, what visions thine gray bark doth hold.

Ole Pennsylvanian wood, were thou sewn by him
Whose king's debt owed, founded this sovereign land.
Thine story hath gravid weight, not a tale told grim.

As a youth, thou were a knight's castle grand
Or a dark dragon with fiery breath.
High in thee boughs, thy mastered the farmland.

As years passed and our kinship reached its breadth,
Thy cannot help but to lament the time
That thou spied on thy joyous play. Now thy death
Looms long. To Heaven thine branches doth climb.