Postscript to Posterity

It is to be devoutly hoped that the praiseworthy scheme to line our highways with trees planted by the children of today will not be brought to nought by the changing fashions or needs of a too-utilitarian tomorrow.

When you go gliding down the tree-lined
way, my child,
And I lie gazing upward at the roots
Of some sad Cypress or oblivious Bay, my
child,
(Just where, or in what wise, who cares
two hoots?)
Then you shall say, “With my own hands
I wrought,
With my young strength I planted these
and these,
With my new mind against old ways I
fought
To give my land the glory of the trees.”

Ah, do not brand as stark utilitarians
Us, and those others of an earlier day,
Nor spread a story of uncouth barbarians
Who sowed bleak ugliness along the
way.
Our axe, our plough, were needful in the
winning
Of turf and tilth that Beauty might
appear;
Ours the grim task of all who make
beginning,
The thankless labor of the pioneer.

Not oft who sow the seed enjoy the shade,
my child;
Not till tomorrow this day’s dreams
come true.
Think then, while plying an unlovely
trade, my child,
We, toiling in the sun, had visions, too.
Then may you find it in your heart to
bless us,
The unwept dreamers of an uglier day,
Lest, weeping here, as weeps our sad
Cupressus,
We slowly wash the ambient mould
away.

Yet, who am I to play the soulful seer,
my child,
And dream of cities garlanded in
green?
Aesthetic fashions change from year to
year, my child,
Nor you nor I glimpse unborn
morrow’s scene.
To mock the tree-lined highways of our
dreaming,
Winding to pleasant plains and sunlit
hills,
Loud-speakers yet may blare ’mid bill-
boards screaming
To hymn the praise of someone’s price-
less pills.