A calm in the flitting sky

A calm in the flitting sky.
And in the calm a moon,
A youngling golden:
'Mid windy shades an olden
Oak-tree whose branches croon
As the orb sails by.
Heigh ho!
Youth and age, the soft and dry,
While breezes blow.

Its crooked arm the oak
Points upward to the moon;
A sapless member,
Which scorching of November
And levin shafts of June
In their season broke.
Heigh ho!
Age is gruff with blight and stroke,
While breezes blow.

But storm has left no trace
Upon the blithe new moon.
That westward slideth,
And on the white wind rideth:
It does not weary soon
Of the blowing race.
Heigh ho!
Youth is free and sweet of face,
While breezes blow.