Country, the Healer

From out the stuffy city streets

     The white-faced dwellers go;

To where green country branches meet,

     Or cooling waters flow.

Out to the lone, sequestered farm,

     Where quiet reigns supreme,

Or to the seashore’s rocky charm

     Where rollers thrash and gleam.

Out in the wind and sun and rain,

     Out in the mystic land

Where health waits in the country lane

     With paint box in her hand.

She touches lip and faded cheek,

     And brightens dullish eyes;

She furnishes the pale and weak

     A sun-kissed paradise.

Would every soul imprisoned now

     Within the cities’ tomb

Could feel upon its weary brow

     The country’s balm and bloom.

Would every weary head could rest,

     A-free from toil and care,

Upon the country’s peaceful breast,

     And find a comfort there.

Aug. 3, ‘09