THE POPLARS

My poplars are like ladies trim,

Each conscious of her own estate;

In costume somewhat over prim,

In manner cordially sedate,

Like two old neighbours met to chat

Beside my garden gate.

My stately old aristocrats —

I fancy still their talk must be

Of rose-conserves and Persian cats,

And lavender and Indian tea;—

I wonder sometimes as I pass

If they approve of me.

I give them greeting night and morn,

I like to think they answer, too,

With that benign assurance born

When youth gives age the reverence due,

And bend their wise heads as I go

As courteous ladies do.

Long may you stand before my door,

Oh, kindly neighbours garbed in green,

And bend with rustling welcome o'er

The many friends who pass between;

And where the little children play

Look down with gracious mien.