Of the city’s crowded street

The babbling of voices

The restlessness of feet.

I often wish my friends would talk

Less dexterous and less clever,

And let me say a word about

My old house and the weather.

I long to stop those restless feet

And if I only could,

I’d still their babbling tongues awhile

With back-home quietude.

I long to let them know about

Birches that stand together,

And the hand that threw the blooms around

My old house and the weather.

But as it is I only take

Mere twigs of it to town,

The lilacs when they’re on the bush

And roses tumbling round.{43}

{43}

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