Who loveth not the elm tree fair...

Who loveth not the elm tree fair . . . . . . . . . . A fountain green in summer air, Whose tremulous spray cools the faint meadow, And croons to all of a careless care?

It shades the city's paven way, Where redbreast knows the white moon's ray; It sentinels the moss-grown homestead, And waits the men of a coming day.

Its curving lines that fill the sight, Like mellow meteor's path of light, Or orbèd spring of walls of azure, My spirit greet from the infinite.