Trees In Paris

The pining leaves that only know the light
Of Paris gas by night,
The leaves that hunger for the harvest moon
And sunny birds that croon
Among the branches rocking in the breeze—
The piteous boulevard trees,
How can they drink the day or night across
Such memories of loss?
All day they dream of sunlight such as yields
Its rapture to the fields;
Of Streams that curl about the roots now grown
Half brother to the stone;
And all the night they long for the cool gleams
The moonlight lays on streams.
All that they see, instead of flocks and herds,
And happy flights of birds,
Is the long dull mechanic flow of feet
Through lengths of jostling street;
The wheels that turn behind the patient horse
Upon his weary course;
And all the human faces dull and base,
Face after tedious face.
This is the fate of trees that know the light
Of Paris gas by night.