Old Archibald, in his eternal chair, br Where trespassers, whatever their degree, br Were soon frowned out again, was looking off br Across the clover when he said to me: br br “My green hill yonder, where the sun goes down br Without a scratch, was once inhabited br By trees that injured him—an evil trash br That made a cage, and held him while he bled. br br “Gone fifty years, I see them as they were br Before they fell. They were a crooked lot br To spoil my sunset, and I saw no time br In fifty years for crooked things to rot. br br “Trees, yes; but not a service or a joy br To God or man, for they were thieves of light. br So down they came. Nature and I looked on, br And we were glad when they were out of sight. br br “Trees are like men, sometimes; and that being so, br So much for that.” He twinkled in his chair, br And looked across the clover to the place br That he remembered when the trees were there.