The Oxford Book of Canadian Verse
The City ElmsEliza Lanesford Cushing (17947–1886)
O
Though not on banks with wild flowers all bedight
Falls through your trembling boughs the chequered light,
As in some forest glade
Where woos the murmuring bee.
Thoughts of the breezy hill, the free green wood,
The gushing stream that over fragments rude
Its silvery foam doth fling,
In wild fantastic play.
O verdant elms! of your green whispering leaves.
Music my spirit loves, and yet it grieves
That ye should here be found,
Soiled with the city’s dust.
Where never the glad tones of Nature’s voice
Steal in to soothe the harsh discordant noise,
The wearied ear that greets
With ceaseless jar and din.
Your stately forms and uncouth objects piled
Around your trunks, where should have gaily smiled
Banks with the primrose starred,
Or bright anemone.
A joy and a delight for ever new,
Lovely to sense and thought is your soft hue,
Or e’en your branches bare
When Winter rules the year.