An acorn on an oak tree grew,
The wind around him gently blew,
It whispered to him quite softly
'Some day from your mother
You will be free
To grow and be a mighty tree'
'Who'? 'Me'? A mighty oak'?
The little acorn thought this a joke.
Cruel autumn wind whistled round
And knocked the acorn to the ground.
A little girl passing by
The small acorn she did spy
She picked ot up but let it fall
Down a nearby rabbit hole.
All winter long it lay inside
Soon it withered and turned dry
In the springtime a shoot of green
From the acorn could be seen.
It grew and grew, as years rolled by
Soon it reached up to the sky.
So it was a tale come true
A mighty oak
From the acorn grew...........
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Comments about this poem (The Acorn by Joseph Enright )
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(28 November 1757 – 12 August 1827)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
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