Who Visions a Great Oak

My problem boy, now six-foot-two, full grown,

Is a man crowned with content, eyes wonder bright,

Who stops his toil to watch a lark in flight

Or listen to its silver flute intone

The wild, sweet breath of spring, for on his own

Green acres--no soul-need to prove his might--

He plants and reaps, with love his acolyte,

Yet spares the pheasant's nest till young have flown.

Once as we watched the land's awaking soul

Gently he mused: "Recall your problem lad?...

Who visions a great oak will plant the seed."--

His hand reached out, caressed the new-born foal;

His eyes sought mine with tenderness--"I had

A teacher, one who saw and filled my need."