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)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(31 October 1795 – 23 February 1821)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(7 May 1861 – 7 August 1941)
(15 April 1958)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
(28 November 1757 – 12 August 1827)
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