MRS. SUMMERBEE GROWN OLD
As tall as the church tower,
And as stark,
The churchyard elm
Rears into the dark.
And many’s the evening
I’ve walked in dread
To think that its boughs
Were overhead;
And many’s the midnight
I’ve waked in fear
To think that its branches
Were drawing near.
For we live here alone—
The Rector and I,
Both of us grown old,
And unwilling to die;
And the churchyard elm
Has arms like a fiend:
Many’s the dark night
I’ve thought they leaned
Downward, downward—
As though they’d claw
Us into the churchyard
Like things of straw.
But thanks to the rulers
Of the realm
We are delivered
From the elm.
For the Inspector
Chanced this way.
He wrote in his book,
And had his say
Of regulations
And bye-laws—
Then came the woodman
And cut its claws.
Harmless and glum
The monster stands
And holds to heaven
Its baffled hands.
The Rector and I
Can walk beneath,
Untroubled by
The fear of death.
And on still nights
When no one’s about
I dance round the elm,
And thus do I flout:
Coffin-tree, coffin-tree,
You shall get neither him nor me!
Your branches are lopped,
Your games are all stopped.