A SOLEMN, dressed-up City Tree,
As stiff and straight as it can be,
All cut and trimmed and kept just so,
Is trying very hard to grow
Correctly, with its top so queer,
In front of my big window here.
It is not like my Country Tree,
Good friend of every bird and bee,
Who keep it merry company
And always sing and talk to me.
My Country Tree laughs all day long.
Its fresh leaves whisper in a song
Their secrets just for me to hear.
Its branches lean so very near
The ground, that grasses stretch and try
To meet the boughs not swung too high.
There is the place, the very best
In all the world, to play and rest.
The City Tree stands all alone
Above the clean-swept pavement stone.
No little children ever stay
Beneath its trimmed-off shade to play—
They aren't brave enough to dare,
Because it is so proper there.
There are no lady-birds about;
No crickets frolic in and out.
The City Tree is very proud,
It hasn't even looked or bowed.
We're not at all acquainted yet—
It's just as if we'd never met.
The days seem long—I wonder when
I'll see my country tree again?