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If any say that Beauty parts from thee
When frost and wind thy summer honors steal,
Stand forth, O Beech, that such an one may see
Beauty as great thy leafage did conceal!


Lo, thou, the West Wind's lithe antagonist,
Art quick to strife, but when his force is spent,
As in a garment meshed of autumn mist
Thy branches sleep in silver-gray content.


By all the crowning summers thou hast shed,
By all thy well-fought winters, dauntless Tree,
Drop benisons upon thy lover's head,
And share thy strength, thy grace, thy hope, with me!