by John Walsh

　　They chopped her down in some far wood
　　A week ago,
　　Shook from her dark green spikes her load
　　Of gathered snow,
　　And brought her home at last, to be
　　Our Christmas show.

　　A week she shone, sprinkled with lamps
　　And fairy frost;
　　Now, with her boughs all stripped, her lights
　　And spangles lost,

　　Out in the garden there, leaning
　　On a broken post,
　　She sighs gently... Can it be
　　She longs to go
　　Back to that far-off wood, where green
　　And wild things grow?
　　Back to her dark green sisters, standing
　　In wind and snow?