A small oak grew in an elder-hedge,
Rustling with growth, he said,
“I am an oak, an oak!”
The elders bent to him with heavy scent,
Taunting, “O, little weed!”

The oak shrank into himself, and made ready to die.
But a wave of courage swept over him
Deep from the heart of his mother-oak.
He drew himself up with passion, crying still,
“I am an oak.”

He pressed himself against the coward leaves,
Up against the heavy scent,
And he prevailed!
In future days, there will be no elder-hedge,