TREES
I WANDER in the open fields
Amazed, for there is no one by,
To see the bowery-hanging trees
So sympathetic with the sky;
Where sheets of daisies on the grass
Lie like Our Lord's discarded shrouds,
Whence He is risen grow the elms
And etch their verges on the clouds.
But when I walk the causey'd town
Whose citizens with tedious breath
Make certain day by day that tomb
Which shuts the Godhead underneath,
I sorrowing tread the cobbled way
Their strait-rankt chestnut-rows between,
Where myriad blossoms hardly light
One sombre pyramid of green.