Classic Poem

He planted, years ago, before his door,
A mountain ash; which now a tree has grown,
And year by year its golden berries bore.
Could it to him who planted have been known,
How much more beautiful his home would be
In years to come! How much of joy and grace
The leaves, and flowers, and fruit of this one tree,
Would give to passers-by, and to the place?
Well I remember, passing through the street,
When but a boy, its beauty caught my eye;
And often now I pause the tree to greet,
As on my daily walk I pass it by;
Nor doth it fail, in winter cold, and drear,
With clustering berries red the eye to cheer.