Wood Lot

O the woodlot we planted,
In the long, long ago.
Is twisted and matted,
And is not much for show.

No longer does the spruce,
And the olive-trees thrive.
But have dried from no moisture,
And are hardly alive.

Their long, lengthy boughs,
Are not a lush green.
And the birds nesting there,
Never more can be seen.

The brier and the thistle,
Are crowding about.
The daisies and primroses,
Are all fading out.

O the woodlot we planted,
In those long ago days.
Has gone back to nature,
But the memory of it stays.

E.P. 1908 - 1989