Green is the plane-tree in the square,
  The other trees are brown; 
They droop and pine for country air;
  The plane-tree loves the town.
 
Here from my garret-pane, I mark 
   The plane-tree bud and blow,  
Shed her recuperative bark, 
   And spread her shade below. 
  
Among her branches, in and out,
  The city breezes play; 
The dun fog wraps her round about;
  Above, the smoke curls grey. 
 
Others the country take for choice, 
   And hold the town in scorn;  
But she has listened to the voice 
   On city breezes borne.