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 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.