Classic Poem

All men speak ill of thee, unlucky Tree!
Spoiling with graceless line the mountain edge,
Clothing with awkward sameness rifted ledge,
Or uplands swelling brokenly and free:
Yet shalt thou win some few good words of me.
Thy boughs it is that teach the wind to mourn,
Haunting deep inland spots and groves forlorn
With the true murmurs of the plaintive sea.
When tuft and shoot on vernal woodlands shine,
Who hath a green unwinterlike as thine?
And when thou leanest o'er some beetling brow,
With pale thin twigs the eye can wander through,
There is no other tree on earth but thou
Which brings the sky so near or makes it seem so blue.