Out
from the city’s smoke and grime,
Out
from the seven story climb,
Out
from the office, dark and small,
Out
from the crowded human stall,
Out
from the city’s stress and strain,
Out
to the woods and fields of grain,
Out
where the wood nymphs frisk and play,
He
collars his grip and goes today.
A
smile on his face six inches wide,
A
heart all ready to burst inside;
A
vision of rest before his eye,
A
laugh as he bids the town good bye.
A
dream of peace, and a sight of fish,
That
is his dearest, fondest wish;
The
night comes on and he goes to bed,
And
the world and all beneath his head.
(One Week Later)
The
weather’s been dry and the fields are brown,
The
other boarders have gone to town;
The
days are too hot, and the fish won’t bite,
Mosquitoes
and hoot-owls disturb his night.
He’s
lonesome and weary, and sick of it all,
And
longs to get back to his little box stall,
The
smoke of the city, the sounds that rise
To
most sojourners are paradise.
Aug.
20, ‘09
Sat.
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