Contemplations

Then on a stately Oak I cast mine Eye,

Whose ruffling top the Clouds seem’d to aspire;

How long since thou wast in thine Infancy?

Thy strength and stature, more thy years admire,

Hath hundred winters past since thou wast born?

Or thousand since thou brakest thy shell of horn,

If so, all these as nought, Eternity doth scorn.