Of fruit, spring’s promise autumn aye fulfilled!
He planted, and transplanted, as he chose
Full-grown elms, hardwood pears, plum-grafted sloes;
Even a leafy plane he dared to move—
Nor hurt—to a fresh home within the grove.
Two thousand years ago the old man died;
And Nature that, with some laws, he defied,
Will, patient, not forgetful, at his death
Have returned arcades, flow’r beds, to waste heath.
Tradition shadows not their place.—