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A London Plane-Tree

by
 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.

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