‘Why have you planted firs
About your dwelling,
Of trees created
Choosing the most adverse
To mortal cheer?
Whose breasts uncouth, both song
And spring repelling,
With endless sighs are freighted;
Foreboding every year
A deeper wrong.
‘Or have you planted firs
About your dwelling
That they in proxy
Might all your sighs rehearse?
Ill-starred one! doomed
To mourn your frustrate prime,
Your sons rebelling,
Your Dear another’s doxy,
Your mouldered heart entombed
In waste of time.’
‘No, Friend. I planted firs
About my dwelling;
But, I protest, meant
No clue so apt for verse
As you conceive
These sombre groves to give.
Soon ripe for felling,
Firs are a good investment;
And though I live to grieve,
Yet I must live.’