A London Plane-Tree
Green is the plane-tree in the square,The other trees are brown;They droop and pine for country air;The plane-tree loves the town.
Here from my garret-pane, I markThe plane-tree bud and blow,Shed her recuperative bark,And spread her shade below.
Among her branches, in and out,The city breezes play;The dun fog wraps her round about;Above, the smoke curls grey.
Others the country take for choice,And hold the town in scorn;But she has listened to the voiceOn city breezes borne.
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