There is a mighty oak in a London park That’s a complete heaven of hierarchies Rapt in a common ecstasy, a breeze Accentuates; the eye will pause to mark Whose ponderous branches; and in the dark Shade provided, absorb whose mysteries From each leaf shape that starts; and all of these Counted, the observer to himself remark, As one: as one, in sweet congruency Of spirit, rising to that mighty head; And when one leaves, the oak tree dwindling fast, Reflected in the world, whose harmony From base to top, the different levels spread, In each one’s shape it starts, the whole to cast.
