Roots spread to gather strength and sustenance,
Sharing the harvest with all who take shelter.
But worm in the wood, and borer in bough,
Thieves of the harvest, take more than their measure.
Still hearted Oak, not speedy to anger,
Too long endures silent the deadly pilferage.
But now the axmen, drunk on their boastings,
To lengthen their legends with spans of good wood,
Offered a branch they shout for the trunk,
Beggaring kinsmen to fill their wood-hoard.
Rise up the winged ones to root out the borers,
Delve deep the blind ones to feast on worm's blood.
Rain down the Acorns like spears and like arrows,
Beat now the boughs on pride-swelling heads.
Still now the wood-glade, silent the axes,
No sound of gnawers. New sprouted oaklings
Seek now the daystar, feeding on bone-soil.