Men love the largeness of the field—­the wild
Quiet that soothes the moor.  In other days
They loved the shadow of the city wall,
In its stone ramparts read their poetry,
Safety and state, gold, and the arts of peace,
Law-giving, leisure, knowledge, all were there
This to excuse a child’s allegiance and
A spirit’s recurrence to the older way. 
Orphan’d, with aged guardians kind and true,
Things came to pass not told before to me.

Thus, we did journey once when eve was near. 
Through carriage windows I beheld the moors,
Then, churches, hamlets cresting of low hills. 
The way was long, at last I, fall’n asleep,
Awoke to hear a rattling ’neath the wheels
And see the lamps alight.  This was the town.

Then a wide inn received us, and full soon
Came supper, kisses, bed. 
                           The lamp without
Shone in; the door was shut, and I alone. 
An ecstasy of exultation took
My soul, for there were voices heard and steps,
I was among so many,—­none of them
Knew I was come! 
                  I rose, with small bare feet,
Across the carpet stole, a white-robed child,
And through the window peered.  Behold the town.

There had been rain, the pavement glistened yet
In a soft lamplight down the narrow street;
The church was nigh at hand, a clear-toned clock
Chimed slowly, open shops across the way
Showed store of fruit, and store of bread,—­and one
Many caged birds.  About were customers,
I saw them bargain, and a rich high voice
Was heard,—­a woman sang, her little babe
Slept ’neath her shawl, and by her side a boy
Added wild notes and sweet to hers. 
                                     Some passed
Who gave her money.  It was far from me
To pity her, she was a part of that
Admired town.  E’en so within the shop
A rosy girl, it may be ten years old,
Quaint, grave.  She helped her mother, deftly weighed
The purple plums, black mulberries rich and ripe
For boyish customers, and counted pence
And dropped them in an apron that she wore. 
Methought a queen had ne’er so grand a lot,
She knew it, she looked up at me, and smiled.

But yet the song went on, and in a while
The meaning came; the town was not enough
To satisfy that singer, for a sigh
With her wild music came.  What wanted she? 
Whate’er she wanted wanted all.  O how
’T was poignant, her rich voice; not like a bird’s. 
Could she not dwell content and let them be,
That they might take their pleasure in the town,
For—­no, she was not poor, witness the pence. 
I saw her boy and that small saleswoman;
He wary, she with grave persuasive air,
Till he came forth with filberts in his cap,
And joined his mother, happy, triumphing.

This was the town; and if you ask what else,
I say good sooth that it was poetry
Because it was the all, and something more,—­
It was the life of man, it was the world
That made addition to the watching heart,
First conscious its own beating, first aware
How, beating it kept time with all the race;
Nay, ’t was a consciousness far down and dim
Of a Great Father watching too.