Heavily on the faithful bulk of Kurneval,
My servant for a long time, leaning,
With footsteps less from weakness than for pleasure in the
	green grass, lagging, I came here,
Out of the house, to lie, propped up on pillows, under this
	fine tree –
Oak older than I, but still, not being ill, growing,
Granted to feel, I think, barring lightening, year after year, -- and
	barring the axe –
For a long time yet, the green sap flowing.