The She-Oak Tree by Myra Morris

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The she-oak tree outside my door,
   Is like some sombre Nun who stands,  
Upon a cold mosaic floor,

Chanting her prayers in sanctity.
   I hear the beads slip through her hands,
The while she drones her Rosary.

Her rusty-black, wind-lifted veil  
   Conceals the contour of her form;    
I see her face, austere and pale.  

And when the night is full of moan
   I hear her voice blown through the storm,
Praying for them who walk alone.    

And then I think she prays for me,  
Counting each Holy Mystery.
I hear the beads slip through her hands,  
The while she chants her Rosary.  

First published in The Australasian, 12 October 1918

Author reference sites: AustlitAustralian Dictionary of Biography

See also.

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This page contains a single entry by Perry Middlemiss published on October 12, 2014 7:14 AM.

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