Thou Ancient Oak! Whose Myriad Leaves Are Loud With Sounds Of Unintelligible Speech, Sounds As Of Surges On A Shingly Beach, Or Multitudinous Murmurs Of A Crowd; With Some Mysterious Gift Of Tongues Endowed, Thou Speakest A Different Dialect To Each; To Me A Language That No Man Can Teach, Of A Lost Race, Long Vanished Like A Cloud. For Underneath Thy Shade, In Days Remote, Seated Like Abraham At Eventide Beneath The Oaks Of Mamre, The Unknown Apostle Of The Indians, Eliot, Wrote His Bible In A Language That Hath Died And Is Forgotten, Save By Thee Alone.