O Leave This Barren Spot To Me! Spare, Woodman, Spare The Beechen Tree! Though Bush Or Floweret Never Grow My Dark Unwarming Shade Below; Nor Summer Bud Perfume The Dew Of Rosy Blush, Or Yellow Hue; Nor Fruits Of Autumn, Blossom-Born, My Green And Glossy Leaves Adorn; Nor Murmuring Tribes From Me Derive Th' Ambrosial Amber Of The Hive; Yet Leave This Barren Spot To Me: Spare, Woodman, Spare The Beechen Tree! Thrice Twenty Summers I Have Seen The Sky Grow Bright, The Forest Green; And Many A Wintry Wind Have Stood In Bloomless, Fruitless Solitude, Since Childhood In My Pleasant Bower First Spent Its Sweet And Sportive Hour; Since Youthful Lovers In My Shade Their Vows Of Truth And Rapture Made, And On My Trunk'S Surviving Frame Carved Many A Long-Forgotten Name. Oh! By The Sighs Of Gentle Sound, First Breathed Upon This Sacred Ground; By All That Love Has Whispered Here, Or Beauty Heard With Ravished Ear; As Love'S Own Altar Honor Me: Spare, Woodman, Spare The Beechen Tree!