In my forest grew an oak,
King among the wood land folk.
Proudly rose his lofty head,
Mightily his boughs were spread.
Just a little breeze one day
Touched his leaves in wanton play,
Round him in a frolic ran,
That was how the storm began.
Just that little breeze awoke
Longing in the lusty oak.
All the leaves sighed; "Come again!"
Nor was the amorous prayer in vain,
For the breeze, in one short hour
Came in conquering whirlwind's power,
And the heart of oak was riven,
With one flash of fire from heaven.
