 | The Poetry of Real Life |  |
141
ON GOING A SHORT DISTANCE OUT OF LONDON, IN THE SPRING.
Far am I from all voice of citied life:No sound thereof comes here; or, if it does,
'Tis like the ocean's, hushed and murmurous
In distance—all the petty care and strife,
The jar of sin and suffering, so rife
In peopled deserts, like an incubus
Upon the breast of social Man, are thus
Awhile forgot; and, like a loving wife,
Who takes her truant husband back again,
Though he hath lately played the libertine,
Me to her holy breast doth Nature strain,
With the old love, in its first force divine!
And round me all her new-grown flowers doth twine,
Like loveknots, the more sweetly to constrain!
| The Poetry of Real Life | |