  Naseboro' held him guilty, Crowther took his part, Who lies at the cross-roads, A stake through his heart. Spring calls, and the stake answers Throwing out shoots; The towns debate what life is this Sprung from such roots. Naseboro' says "A Upas Tree"; "A Rose," says Crowther; But April's here to declare it Neither one nor other. Neither ill nor very fair, Rose nor Upas, But an honest oak-tree, As its parent was. A green-tufted oak-tree On the green wold, Careless as the dead heart That the roots enfold. |
|
