Green is the plane tree in the square,
The other trees are brown:
They droop and pine for country air;
The plane tree loves the town.
Here from my garret pane,
I mark The plane-tree bud and blow,
Shed her recuperative bark,
And spread her shade below.
Among her branches, in and out,
The city breezes play;
The dung fog wraps her round about;
Above, the smoke curls grey.
Others the country takes for choice,
And holds the town in scorn;
But she has listened to the voice
On city breezes born.
Amy Levy (1861-1889)