At the last, whether losing or winning,
      This thought with all memories blend,—­
   We forgot not to catch the beginning,
      And we pulled it clean through to the end.

LETTER FROM THE TOWN MOUSE TO THE COUNTRY MOUSE.

I.

Oh for a field, my friend; oh for a field! 
   I ask no more
   Than one plain field, shut in by hedgerows four,
Contentment sweet to yield. 
For I am not fastidious,
   And, with a proud demeanour, I
Will not affect invidious
   Distinctions about scenery. 
I sigh not for the fir trees where they rise
Against Italian skies,
   Swiss lakes, or Scottish heather,
   Set off with glorious weather;
      Such sights as these
      The most exacting please;
But I, lone wanderer in London streets,
Where every face one meets
      Is full of care,
      And seems to wear
      A troubled air,
      Of being late for some affair
   Of life or death:—­thus I, ev’n I,
Long for a field of grass, flat, square, and green
Thick hedges set between,
      Without or house or bield,
      A sense of quietude to yield;
   And heave my longing sigh,
Oh for a field, my friend; oh for a field!

II.

For here the loud streets roar themselves to rest
   With hoarseness every night;
   And greet returning light
With noise and roar, renewed with greater zest. 
   Where’er I go,
   Full well I know
The eternal grinding wheels will never cease. 
There is no place of peace! 
   Rumbling, roaring, and rushing,
   Hurrying, crowding, and crushing,
Noise and confusion, and worry, and fret,
From early morning to late sunset—­
Ah me! but when shall I respite get—­
What cave can hide me, or what covert shield? 
      So still I sigh,
      And raise my cry,
Oh for a field, my friend; oh for a field!

III.

Oh for a field, where all concealed,
   From this life’s fret and noise,
I sip delights from rural sights,
   And simple rustic joys. 
Where, stretching forth my limbs at rest,
   I lie and think what likes me best;
Or stroll about where’er I list,
   Nor fear to be run over
By sheep, contented to exist
   Only on grass and clover. 
In town, as through the throng I steer,
   Confiding in the Muses,
My finest thoughts are drowned in fear
   Of cabs and omnibuses. 
I dream I’m on Parnassus hill,
   With laurels whispering o’er me,
When suddenly I feel a chill—­
   What was it passed before me? 
A lady bowed her gracious head
   From yonder natty brougham—­
The windows were as dull as lead,
   I didn’t know her through them.