Trees

They ask me where the Temple stands,

And is the Abbey far from there;

They ask the way to old St. Paul’s,

And where they’ll find Trafalgar Square.

As I pass on with my one thought

To find a quiet place with trees,

I answer him, I answer her,

I answer one and all of these.

When I sit under a green tree,

Silent, and breathing all the while

As easy as a sleeping child,

And smiling with as soft a smile-

Then, as my brains begin to work,

This is the thought that comes to me:

Were such a peace more often mine,

I’d live as long as this green tree.