My Poplars Are Like Ladies Trim, Each Conscious Of Her Own Estate; In Costume Somewhat Over Prim, In Manner Cordially Sedate, Like Two Old Neighbours Met To Chat Beside My Garden Gate. My Stately Old Aristocrats-- I Fancy Still Their Talk Must Be Of Rose-Conserves And Persian Cats, And Lavender And Indian Tea;-- I Wonder Sometimes As I Pass If They Approve Of Me. I Give Them Greeting Night And Morn, I Like To Think They Answer, Too, With That Benign Assurance Born When Youth Gives Age The Reverence Due, And Bend Their Wise Heads As I Go As Courteous Ladies Do. Long May You Stand Before My Door, Oh, Kindly Neighbours Garbed In Green, And Bend With Rustling Welcome O'Er The Many Friends Who Pass Between; And Where The Little Children Play Look Down With Gracious Mien.