Men called them when the moon was new,
And built them little huts of stone
With briar and thistle over-grown.
The trees are few and do not bend
To make a whispering swaying arch;
They are the elder and the larch,
Who have the north-east wind for friend,
And shield them from his bluff salute
With elbow kinked and moss-girt root.
There, when the clear Spring sunset dies