Upon a Dying Lady（七）

VII
     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.