Beneath the Oak by Rose Maxim

How sweet it is in solitude to be,
A little while away from worldly care,
Reclining calmly 'neath the spreading tree
Where odors sweet are wafted on the air.
Now gentle breezes fan the glowing cheek,
And stir the leaves that rustle audibly,
The softly swaying branches seem to speak:
"Here I will ever rest and shelter thee.
No sound is heard save the low, babbling brook,
The cricket's chirp, the song of whip-poorwill.
Within this beauteous, sequestered nook,
Where life is sweetest, let me linger still;
Where Nature and the soul can be in tune,
The creature and Creator still commune.