The poplar tree that guards my house
Looks in on me tonight,
As if it would divide my shade,
Though based itself in light.
Alas, poor tree!
It knows not me;
A mystery few explain aright.

It stands out in the lamp-light there,
And shakes its twinkling leaves;
And whatsoe'er the heavens may send,
It patiently receives:
Rain, hail, or snow;
All winds that blow;
Whatever comes it never grieves!

For me, I cannot say the like,
For I do grieve and pine;
There's not an hour but stirs a pang
In this weak heart of mine:
Even Pleasure pains;
And Love contains--
How much of sorrow, though divine!

Even now it fills my aching heart
With mingled gloom, and flame;
And yet the poplar envies me
My woe without a name!
It sees my tears,
Divines my fears,
And yearns to bear the same.

No, poplar, no! rest where you are
In wiser Nature's plan;
'Tis just as well, and happier
To be a tree than man!
Your time may come,
Your martyrdom:
Till then contented, happy be,
Nor seek to share my life with me!