Upon a Dying Lady（七）

    Her Friends bring her a Christmas Tree

    Pardon， great enemy，

    Without an angry thought

    We've carried in our tree，

    And here and there have bought

    Till all the boughs¹ are gay，

    And she may look from the bed

    On pretty things that may

    Please a fantastic head.

    Give her a little grace，

    What if a laughing eye

    Have looked into your face？

    It is about to die.