THE leaves of the black oak linger the winter through In the woods of the wide Northwest; leech-like they cling To the branch, and they nowise yield to blight and snow, Presences dun and mystic; oft is the view Framed in their subtle richness; often they ring Horizons else remote as the Long Ago. The leaves of the black oak bide, and for me their grace Has a conjuring touch of home, of a dear lost place; I forget the plains, I behold New England's face. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGUESE: 28 by ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING VOICES OF THE NIGHT: PRELUDE by HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW ELAINE by EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY FOUR LITTLE FOXES by LEW SARETT THE OLD LINE FENCE by AMERICUS WELLINGTON BELLAW PRESENTIMENT by CHARLOTTE BRONTE |