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THEN.
57
THEN.
LEAN my aching forehead on my palms,And think how it will be another year;
When May, with passionate showers and sunny calms,
Will walk this way, and I shall not be here.
The city will not miss me: I have been
Only a step-child of its dust and noise;
Longing and homesick, in its strife and din,
For the green country and its quiet joys.
Only a step-child of its dust and noise;
Longing and homesick, in its strife and din,
For the green country and its quiet joys.
Threading its wilderness of crowded streets,
How have I longed for rural summer-tides,—
For tangled wood-paths, full of dewy sweets,
And cool green ways by murmuring river-sides!
How have I longed for rural summer-tides,—
For tangled wood-paths, full of dewy sweets,
And cool green ways by murmuring river-sides!
These alien souls will never miss the face,
Tear-stained sometimes, and sometimes summer-fair,
Tear-stained sometimes, and sometimes summer-fair,
