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 boughs 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.