Smith, Effie Waller
|SONGS OF THE MONTHS.|
|A LONGING FOR THE WOODS.|
O, to be away, to be away
From the city's crowded streets to-day;
From its hurry, its bustle and din;
Its care and strife and its awful sin.
O, to be in the woodland cool;
O, for a bath in a fern-fringed pool;
O, for the singing of wild-bird sweet,
My tired music-loving ears to greet.
O, for a walk in a grassy dell;
O, for the tinkling sound of bells
Coming from far-off cattle and sheep
A-grazing on hillside pastures steep.
O, for a rest on a dear old stone,
With mosses and lichens over-grown;
With no human presence to intrude,
None to break my silent solitude.
O, for a peep in a darkened glen,
Where the sun's hot rays have never been;
Where the wood-doves softly croon and coo
To their love-mates, the long summer day through.
Where in bright sprays the water falls o'er
A precipice high, barren of roar;
Where wild flowers blow and Dryads dwell:
Sure such a scene has power to quell
This tired feeling of restlessness,
Of sorrow, of pain and wretchedness;
For I'm sick of the city's dust and heat;
I long for the woodland cool and sweet.