from the archive.

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 mark The 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 voice On city breezes borne.