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.