Poems (Hoffman)/The Oak and the Vine

by Martha Lavinia Hoffman

THE OAK AND THE VINE

To a stalwart oak a fragile vine
With its helpless tendrils clung,
And looking up saw the sunbeams shine
The lofty boughs among,
 But never content with its low estate,
 Longed like the oak to be noble and great.

Longed to arise from the dark and damp,
Of the thicket where it grew;
Bask in the light of the sky's bright lamp
And revel 'neath seas of blue;
 But the poor little vine, unsought, unknown,
 Was too weak to even stand alone.

The stately oak felt her clinging touch
And bowed his haughty head;
But he felt too proud to speak to such
A little thing, so he said:
 "Only a little vine, so small
 Without my aid it would surely fall."

But the oak's gaunt trunk was rough and bare,
Gnarled and disfigured by time,
And wishing still to be young and fair,
He let the grapevine climb,
 Saying: "Helpless vine so far beneath,
 You may twine my bark with a glossy wreath."

Gladly the vine performed its task
Nor sighed for a higher lot,
Nor paused in its humble work to ask
What glory its service brought;
 For, though it was neither great nor high,
 Was it not nearing the lovely sky?

So the years passed by and the old oak stood
In its conscious pride the same,
Nor strove for a higher, nobler good,
Content with its vaunted fame;
 While the little vine so far below,
 Ne'er lost for a moment its wish to grow.

Upward, onward, it steadily crept,
"Till the rough bark was draped with green,
And then while the haughty monarch slept,
It clambered the boughs between,
 And gained one morning in ecstasy
 The topmost bough of the old oak tree.

Brightly the light on its glossy leaves glanced,
And a bird perched on its stem,
While the merry sunbeams around it danced,
In a glistening diadem,
 And at night the moon with a smile benign
 Shone down on the little helpless vine.

Years passed and one of the Autumn eves
Some travelers passed that way,
Beheld of yellow and crimson leaves,
A wondrously gorgeous array;
 They paused and cried in their rapt delight:
 "The vine has hidden the oak from sight!"

And the tree awoke from its high conceit,
To find himself at last,
By the little clinging vine at his feet,
So wondrously surpassed,
 And cried, in his deep regret, "To me
 Was the loftiest station given,
 But while I boasted nobility,
 The vine was nearest Heaven."