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TREES AND OTHER POEMS MARTIN

HEN I am tired of earnest men,

Intense and keen and sharp and clever,

Pursuing fame with brush or pen

Or counting metal disks forever,

Then from the halls of Shadowland

Beyond the trackless purple sea

Old Martin's ghost comes back to stand

Beside my desk and talk to me.

Still on his delicate pale face

A quizzical thin smile is showing,

His cheeks are wrinkled like fine lace,

His kind blue eyes are gay and glowing.

He wears a brilliant-hued cravat,

A suit to match his soft grey hair,

A rakish stick, a knowing hat,

A manner blithe and debonair.

How good that he who always knew

That being lovely was a duty,

Should have gold halls to wander through

And should himself inhabit beauty.

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