In the city

  Away from the silent hills and the talking
      of upland waters,
  The high still stars and the lonely moon
      in her quarters,
  I fly to the city, the streets, the faces, the towers;
  And I leave behind me the hush and the dews
      and the flowers,
  The mink that steals by the stream a-shimmer
      among the rocks,
  The hawk o’er the barn-yard sailing, the little cub-bear
      and the fox,
  The woodchuck and his burrow, and the little snake at noon,
  And the house of the yellow-jacket, and the cricket’s
      endless tune.

  And what shall I find in the city that shall take
      the place of these? 
  O I shall find my love there, and fall at her silken knees,
  And for the moon her breast, and for the stars her eyes,
  And under her shadowed hair the gardens of Paradise.

  Country largesse

  I bring a message from the stream
  To fan the burning cheeks of town,
  From morning’s tower
  Of pearl and rose
  I bring this cup of crystal down,
  With brimming dews agleam,
  And from my lady’s garden close
  I bring this flower.

  O walk with me, ye jaded brows,
  And I will sing the song I found
  Making a lonely rippling sound
  Under the boughs. 
  The tinkle of the brook is there,
  And cow-bells wandering through the fern,
  And silver calls
  From waterfalls,
  And echoes floating through the air
  From happiness I know not where,
  And hum and drone where’er I turn
  Of little lives that buzz and die;
  And sudden lucent melodies,
  Like hidden strings among the trees
  Roofing the summer sky.

  The soft breath of the briar I bring,
  And wafted scents of mint and clover,
  Rain-distilled balms the hill-winds fling,
  Sweet-thoughted as a lover;
  Incense from lilied urns a-swaying,
  And the green smell of grass
  Where men are haying.

  As through the streets I pass,
  With their shrill clatter,
  This largesse from the hills and streams,
  This quietude of flowers and dreams,
  Round me I scatter.

  Morn

  Morn hath a secret that she never tells: 
    ’Tis on her lips and in her maiden eyes—­
    I think it is the way to Paradise,
  Or of the Fount of Youth the crystal wells. 
  The bee hath no such honey in her cells
    Sweet as the balm that in her bosom lies,
    As in her garden of the budding skies
  She walks among the silver asphodels.

  He that is loveless and of heart forlorn,
    Let him but leave behind his haunted bed,
      And set his feet toward yonder singing star,
  Shall have for sweetheart this same secret morn;
      She shall come running to him from afar,
    And on her cool breast lay his lonely head.

  The source