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There is the old oak tree.

See the birds flying to the nest.

The nest is in the tree.

Little blue flowers grow under it.

The tree loves birds and flowers.

And they love the old oak tree.

The old oak rocks the birds in the nest.

The nest is on a high bough.

The wind blows the bough.

But the little birds rest there safely.

The old birds fly in to the nest.

They feed the little birds.

Then they fly to the tree-top.

There they sing and sing.

“We love you! We love you!”

The little birds can not fly; they can not sing.

So they say, “Peep! peep! We love! we love!”

The little flowers look up to the old tree.

They can not fly; they can not sing.

But they, too, love the old oak tree.

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Whichever way the wind doth blow

Some heart is glad to have it so.

Then blow it east or blow it west,

The wind that blows—that wind is best.

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