Old Archibald, in his eternal chair,
Where trespassers, whatever their degree, 
Were soon frowned out again, was looking off 
Across the clover when he said to me: 

“My green hill yonder, where the sun goes down
Without a scratch, was once inhabited 
By trees that injured him—an evil trash 
That made a cage, and held him while he bled. 

“Gone fifty years, I see them as they were 
Before they fell. They were a crooked lot
To spoil my sunset, and I saw no time 
In fifty years for crooked things to rot. 

“Trees, yes; but not a service or a joy 
To God or man, for they were thieves of light. 
So down they came. Nature and I looked on,
And we were glad when they were out of sight. 

“Trees are like men, sometimes; and that being so, 
So much for that.” He twinkled in his chair, 
And looked across the clover to the place 
That he remembered when the trees were there. 

Added: on June 8th, 2006 at 2:56 AM | Viewed: 1704 times | Comments (1)

Poet: Edwin Arlington Robinson
Poem: Archibald's Example
Poem of the Day: Jun 8 2006

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