A tall oak tree, standing lone in a field, Weary pilgrims come to the shade it yields, Resting their travel-worn souls, In the shadows of its boughs, To soothe the distress, The weary pilgrims' load. They take their ease, Under the blessings of its leaves, Resting faithfully upon its side, To easy them of their stride. They play the pilgrims' number, And retire to their slumber, 'Till they awake, New strength having gained. They shoulder their possessions, As they continue their procession, They think it well, Not to be disturbed, They give the oak no space, Its song goes unheard. Bidding no farewell, They grab their walking cane, Leave the lone oak tree, Standing in the way. And in the way it finds its ground, As the sun works its way down, 'Till distant pilgrim in sight, Hope, as new dawn, breaks light. But knowing too well, In solitude the oak dwells, Pilgrim plays the pilgrims' game, Continues down the pilgrims' way. Though a heavy heart can be found, In the oak tree's red-oak boughs, Grateful to be in the pilgrims' way, If it could be a pilgrim's aide.