Old Archibald, in his eternal chair,
Where trespassers, whatever their degree, 
Were soon frowned out again, was looking off 
Across the clover when he said to me: 

?My green hill yonder, where the sun goes down
Without a scratch, was once inhabited 
By trees that injured him?an evil trash 
That made a cage, and held him while he bled. 

?Gone fifty years, I see them as they were 
Before they fell. They were a crooked lot
To spoil my sunset, and I saw no time 
In fifty years for crooked things to rot. 

?Trees, yes; but not a service or a joy 
To God or man, for they were thieves of light. 
So down they came. Nature and I looked on,
And we were glad when they were out of sight. 

?Trees are like men, sometimes; and that being so, 
So much for that.? He twinkled in his chair, 
And looked across the clover to the place 
That he remembered when the trees were there.