The century oak, rugged and gaunt, Holds high to-day, as he was wont A hundred years ago, his head, Hoary with snows that have vanished, Defiant and grim to the wind’s wild taunt. The hooting owl finds here a haunt, And feathered choristers now chaunt As when the century’s dawn made red The century oak.
No season’s coil his heart can daunt; Processive years their changes vaunt, But, constant till the line have fled And mouldered in oblivion’s bed, He holds his own, rugged and gaunt, – The century oak. – Harvey Carson Grumbine
Oak bark, tree sap, wild acorns, and a touch of honey.
A Halloween lure: the feral musk of cryptids lurking in an old growth forest peeping expectantly at a bowl of sticky-sweet caramels, toffees, chocolate bonbons, and butterscotch candies.
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