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.<br /><br />Edwin Arlington Robinson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/archibald-s-example/
