WHAT song is in the sap of this brave oak-tree br That to the north-star faces, br Ravened each June by caterpillar masses br Till all its leaves are laces, br Poor shreds whose very shadow grieves the grasses? br I leave it then, but roses and the smoke-tree br Look from the lawn below it br And watch for that gold witch, Midsummer Weather, br With magic breath to blow it br Free of its foes, whose wings make mirth together. br Vital as Igdrasil, immortal folk-tree, br When I return, its losses br Are all restored, its fresh, soft foliage gleaming br With peach and citron glosses, br A Druid that is never done with dreaming.