Classic Poem

With plumy leaves veined like the maiden-hair,
A fount of foliage jetting toward the sky,
This quaint exotic thrives in alien air
Where rugged oak and native chestnut die.
Not fairer was that tree, I dare maintain,
Which once, delighted, Persia's monarch found
Near golden Sardis, the far-famoused plane,
Whose charms in Handel's Largo still resound.
Rich jewels on that favored tree he hung,
And there bade station an Immortal guard;
While I, O tree, by whom your praise is sung,
Have naught but sonnet-songs for your reward.
Yet if thereby your fame to future days is told,
What greater worth to you were Xerxes and his gold!