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.