To a Fallen Elm

Old tree, old tree! thy branches low Have bent so low in the winter gale, That none can know, though higher grow The flowers on forests’ hallowed vale.

Thou once didst shade the woodland way, And glad the hearts of wandering throng, But now thy life, a shade in grey, Confines, while wail the mournful song.

Yet in thy falling, aged friend, Bear witness to the time I came, And breathed the air that each might blend, With beauty old; thou hast no shame!

• John Clare