Archibald’s Example
Old Archibald, in his eternal chair,Where trespassers, whatever their degree,Were soon frowned out again, was looking offAcross the clover when he said to me:
“My green hill yonder, where the sun goes downWithout a scratch, was once inhabitedBy trees that injured him—an evil trashThat made a cage, and held him while he bled.
“Gone fifty years, I see them as they wereBefore they fell. They were a crooked lotTo spoil my sunset, and I saw no timeIn fifty years for crooked things to rot.
“Trees, yes; but not a service or a joyTo God or man, for they were thieves of light.So down they came. Nature and I looked on,And we were glad when they were out of sight.
“Trees are like men, sometimes; and that being so,So much for that.” He twinkled in his chair,And looked across the clover to the placeThat he remembered when the trees were there.