Old tree thou art witherd—last year I did pass
The black bird snug hid in thy branches did sing
Thy shadow stretcht dark oer the green sprouting grass
& thou wert as green as thy mates of the spring
How alterd sin then not a leaf hast thou got
Thy honours brown round thee that cloathed the tree
The clown passeth by thee & heedeth it not
But thourt a warm source of reflection for me
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