I pass by this magnificent oak tree everyday. It towers above all of the other trees, and it's sprawling branches stretch across land that was once part of the main dirt toll-road leading to Nashville.
The tree is a Chinkapin White Oak and is listed on the National Oak Registry, it has stood in this spot for the last three hundred years. Ooh what stories it could tell, including standing witness to the tragicand deadly Trail of Tears route.
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The oak it is a noble tree,
The monarch of the wood;
Through winter's storms a thousand years,
Its hardy trunk hath stood.
It is not stately, like the beech;
The elm more tall may be;
And gracefuller the lovely lime;
Yet 't is a noble tree.
An acorn, by a squirrel dropped
Amid a tuft of grass,
May be an oak, on which we look
With wonder as we pass.
But then it years, long years, must grow,
And this may teach to all,
What mighty things in after times
May come from means now small.
How little did they think who saw
A green oak sapling spring
In some old forest long ago,
That it would float a king!
Perhaps some ancient Druid came
To pluck from it a bough;
'T is now a gallant ship—but he,
Where is that Druid now?
Perhaps an acorn from that tree
Dropped on his nameless grave,
And o'er it now in summer green'
Dark' tangled branches wave.
How beautiful the oak's young leaves,
In the bright days of Spring;
Or, when a richer tint the skies
Of early autumn bring:
And all upon the dewy ground
The acorn-cups are laid,
Like richly chased spoons are they,
For fairy banquets made.
So, monarch of all forest trees,
On every English plain;
We crown thee still, thou brave old oak,
And long, long be thy reign!
Ann Hawkshaw
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