To One Who Has Been Long in City Pent

To one who has been long in city pent, 

'Tis very sweet to look into the fair 

And open face of heaven,—to breathe a prayer 

Full in the smile of the blue firmament. 

Who is more happy, when, with heart's content, 

Fatigued he sinks into some pleasant lair 

Of wavy grass, and reads a debonair 

And gentle tale of love and languishment? 

Returning home at evening, with an ear 

Catching the notes of Philomel,—an eye 

Watching the sailing cloudlet's bright career, 

He mourns that day so soon has glided by: 

E'en like the passage of an angel's tear 

That falls through the clear ether silently.

~ John Keats

Woodchucking

I have chased fugacious woodchucks over many leagues of land, 

But at last they’ve always vanished in a round

 hole in the sand; 

And though I’ve been woodchucking many 

times–upon my soul–

I have never bagged my woodchuck, for he 

always found his hole. 

l have chased my hot ambitious through the

meadow while with flowers,

Chased them through the clover blossoms, 

chased them through the orchard 

bowers;

Chased them through the old scrub pastures

till, with weariness of soul

f at last have seen them vanish like a 

woodchuck In his hole. 

But there's fun In chasing woodchucks, and 

I’ll chase the vision still, 

ft it leads me through the dark pine woods 

and up the stony hill.

There's a glorious expectation that still 

lingers In my soul, 

That some day i’ll catch that woodchuck ere

he slides into his hole. 

~ Anonymous

Little Colt

Little colt, you can't help wobbling 

On legs as long as those. 

But you couldn't have them different - 

Not even if you chose, 

You have to have such lots of legs; 

I'm glad you haven't more. 

Just two are all I need. It must 

Be hard to manage four. 

I never saw legs any longer 

Nor long ones any thinner. 

But then you have to have long legs 

So you can reach your dinner. 

~ Anonymous

Chicago

Hog Butcher for the World,

Tool Maker, Stacker of Wheat,

Player with Railroads and the Nation's 

Freight Handler;

Stormy, husky, brawling,

City of the Big Shoulders:

They tell me you are wicked and I believe 

them, for I have seen your painted 

women under the gas lamps luring the 

farm boys.

And they tell me you are crooked and I 

answer: Yes, it is true I have seen the 

gunman kill and go free to kill again.

And they tell me you are brutal and my reply 

is: On the faces of women and children 

I have seen the marks of wanton 

hunger.

And having answered so I turn once more to 

those who sneer at this my city, and I 

give them back the sneer and say to 

them:

Come and show me another city with lifted 

head singing so proud to be alive and 

coarse and strong and cunning.

Flinging magnetic curses amid the toil of 

piling job on job, here is a tall bold 

slugger set vivid against the little soft 

cities;

Fierce as a dog with tongue lapping for 

action, cunning as a savage pitted 

against the wilderness,

Bareheaded,

Shoveling,

Wrecking,

Planning,

Building, breaking, rebuilding,

Under the smoke, dust all over his mouth, 

laughing with white teeth,

Under the terrible burden of destiny laughing 

as a young man laughs,

Laughing even as an ignorant fighter laughs 

who has never lost a battle,

Bragging and laughing that under his wrist is 

the pulse, 

and under his ribs the heart of the people,

Laughing!

Laughing the stormy, husky, brawling 

laughter of Youth, half-naked, 

sweating, proud to be Hog Butcher, 

Tool Maker, Stacker of Wheat, Player 

with Railroads and Freight Handler to 

the Nation.

~ Carl Sandburg

London

I wander through each charter'd street, 

Near where the charter'd Thames does flow. 

And mark in every face I meet ,

Marks of weakness, marks of woe. 

In every cry of every Man, 

In every Infants cry of fear, 

In every voice: in every ban, 

The mind-forg'd manacles I hear. 

How the chimney-sweepers cry 

Every blackning Church appalls;

And the hapless Soldiers sigh 

Runs in blood down Palace walls.

But most through midnight streets I hear 

How the youthful Harlots curse 

Blasts the new-born Infants tear, 

And blights with plagues the Marriage hearse.

~ WIlliam Blake

Out Where the West Begins

Out where the handclasp’s a little stronger,

Out where the smile dwells a little longer,

That’s where the West begins;

Out where the sun is a little brighter,

Where the snows that fall are a trifle whiter,

Where the bonds of home are a wee bit tighter, —

That’s where the West begins.

Out where the skies are a trifle bluer,

Out where friendship’s a little truer,

That’s where the West begins;

Out where a fresher breeze is blowing,

Where there’s laughter in every streamlet flowing,

Where there’s more of reaping and less of sowing, —

That’s where the West begins;

Out where the world is in the making,

Where fewer hearts in despair are aching,

That’s where the West begins;

Where there’s more of singing and less of sighing,

Where there’s more of giving and less of buying,

And a man makes friends without half trying —

That’s where the West begins.

~ Arthur Chapman

Dance the Boatman

The boatman he can dance and sing 

And he's the lad for any old thing. 

Dance the boatman, dance! 

Dance the boatman, dance! 

He'll dance all night On his toes so light 

And go down to his boat in the morning. 

Hooraw the boatman, ho! 

Spends his money with the gals ashore! 

Hooraw the boatman, ho! 

Rolling down the Ohio!

From Louisville down the Ohio,

He's known wherever them boats do go,

Dance the boatman, dance! 

Dance the boatman, dance! 

He'll drink and dance and kiss them all,

And away in his boat in the morning,

Hooraw the boatman, ho! 

Spends his money with the gals ashore! 

Hooraw the boatman, ho! 

Rolling down the Ohio!

The girls all wait for boatman Bill,

For he's the one they all love still,

Dance the boatman, dance! 

Dance the boatman, dance! 

He'll buy them drinks and swing them high,

And leave in his boat in the morning.

Hooraw the boatman, ho! 

Spends his money with the gals ashore! 

Hooraw the boatman, ho! 

Rolling down the Ohio!

~ Anonymous

The Old Oaken Bucket

How dear to this heart are the scenes of my childhood, 

When fond recollection presents them to view! 

The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled wildwood, 

And every loved spot which my infancy knew; 

The wide-spreading pond and the mill which stood by it, 

The bridge, and the rock where the cataract fell; 

The cot of my father, the dairy-house nigh it, 

And e’en the rude bucket which hung in the well,— 

The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, 

The moss-covered bucket which hung in the well. 

That moss-covered vessel I hail as a treasure; 

For often, at noon, when returned from the field, 

I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure, 

The purest and sweetest that nature can yield. 

How ardent I seized it, with hands that were glowing! 

And quick to the white-pebbled bottom it fell; 

Then soon, with the emblem of truth overflowing, 

And dripping with coolness, it rose from the well;— 

The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, 

The moss-covered bucket, arose from the well. 

How sweet from the green mossy brim to receive it, 

As, poised on the curb, it inclined to my lips! 

Not a full blushing goblet could tempt me to leave it, 

Though filled with the nectar that Jupiter sips. 

And now, far removed from the loved situation, 

The tear of regret will intrusively swell, 

As fancy reverts to my father’s plantation, 

And sighs for the bucket which hangs in the well; 

The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, 

The moss-covered bucket which hangs in the well.

~ Samuel Woodworth

The Village Blacksmith

Under a spreading chestnut-tree

The village smithy stands;

The smith, a mighty man is he,

With large and sinewy hands;

And the muscles of his brawny arms

Are strong as iron bands. 

His hair is crisp, and black, and long,

His face is like the tan;

His brow is wet with honest sweat,

He earns whate'er he can,

And looks the whole world in the face,

For he owes not any man. 

Week in, week out, from morn till night,

You can hear his bellows blow;

You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,

With measured beat and slow,

Like a sexton ringing the village bell,

When the evening sun is low. 

And children coming home from school

Look in at the open door;

They love to see the flaming forge,

And hear the bellows roar,

And catch the burning sparks that fly

Like chaff from a threshing-floor. 

He goes on Sunday to the church,

And sits among his boys;

He hears the parson pray and preach,

He hears his daughter's voice,

Singing in the village choir,

And it makes his heart rejoice. 

It sounds to him like her mother's voice,

Singing in Paradise!

He needs must think of her once more,

How in the grave she lies;

And with his hard, rough hand he wipes

A tear out of his eyes. 

Toiling,--rejoicing,--sorrowing,

Onward through life he goes;

Each morning sees some task begin,

Each evening sees it close

Something attempted, something done,

Has earned a night's repose. 

Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,

For the lesson thou hast taught!

Thus at the flaming forge of life

Our fortunes must be wrought;

Thus on its sounding anvil shaped

Each burning deed and thought!

~ Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Home - Thoughts from Abroad

Oh, to be in England 

Now that April's there, 

And whoever wakes in England 

Sees, some morning, unaware, 

That the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheaf 

Round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf, 

While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough 

In England—now! 

And after April, when May follows, 

And the whitethroat builds, and all the swallows! 

Hark, where my blossomed pear-tree in the hedge 

Leans to the field and scatters on the clover 

Blossoms and dewdrops—at the bent spray's edge— 

That's the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over, 

Lest you should think he never could recapture 

The first fine careless rapture! 

And though the fields look rough with hoary dew, 

All will be gay when noontide wakes anew 

The buttercups, the little children's dower 

—Far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower! 

~ Robert Browning

My Heart's in the Highlands

Farewell to the Highlands, farewell to the North, 

The birth-place of valor, the country of worth! 

Wherever I wander, wherever I rove, 

The hills of the Highlands for ever I love. 

My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here, 

My heart's in the Highlands, a-chasing the deer, 

A-chasing the wild-deer, and following the roe ---

My heart's in the Highlands, wherever I go. 

Farewell to the mountains high-covered with snow, 

Farewell to the straths and green valleys below, 

Farewell to the forests and wild-hanging woods, 

Farewell to the torrents and loud-pouring floods! 

My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here, 

My heart's in the Highlands, a-chasing the deer, 

A-chasing the wild-deer, and following the roe ---

My heart's in the Highlands, wherever I go. 

~ Robert Burns

Up at a Villa --- Down in the City

(As Distinguished by an Italian Person of Quality)

Had I but plenty of money, money enough and to spare, 

The house for me, no doubt, were a house in the city-square; 

Ah, such a life, such a life, as one leads at the window there! 

Something to see, by Bacchus, something to hear, at least! 

There, the whole day long, one's life is a perfect feast; 

While up at a villa one lives, I maintain it, no more than a beast. 

Well now, look at our villa! stuck like the horn of a bull 

Just on a mountain-edge as bare as the creature's skull, 

Save a mere shag of a bush with hardly a leaf to pull! 

—I scratch my own, sometimes, to see if the hair's turned wool. 

But the city, oh the city—the square with the houses! Why? 

They are stone-faced, white as a curd, there's something to take the eye! 

Houses in four straight lines, not a single front awry; 

You watch who crosses and gossips, who saunters, who hurries by; 

Green blinds, as a matter of course, to draw when the sun gets high; 

And the shops with fanciful signs which are painted properly. 

What of a villa? Though winter be over in March by rights, 

'Tis May perhaps ere the snow shall have withered well off the heights: 

You've the brown ploughed land before, where the oxen steam and wheeze, 

And the hills over-smoked behind by the faint gray olive-trees. 

Is it better in May, I ask you? You've summer all at once; 

In a day he leaps complete with a few strong April suns. 

'Mid the sharp short emerald wheat, scarce risen three fingers well, 

The wild tulip, at end of its tube, blows out its great red bell 

Like a thin clear bubble of blood, for the children to pick and sell. 

Is it ever hot in the square? There's a fountain to spout and splash! 

In the shade it sings and springs: in the shine such foambows flash 

On the horses with curling fish-tails, that prance and paddle and pash 

Round the lady atop in her conch—fifty gazers do not abash, 

Though all that she wears is some weeds round her waist in a sort of sash. 

All the year long at the villa, nothing to see though you linger, 

Except yon cypress that points like death's lean lifted forefinger. 

Some think fireflies pretty, when they mix in the corn and mingle, 

Or thrid the stinking hemp till the stalks of it seem a-tingle. 

Late August or early September, the stunning cicala is shrill, 

And the bees keep their tiresome whine round the resinous firs on the hill. 

Enough of the seasons,—I spare you the months of the fever and chill. 

Ere you open your eyes in the city, the blessed church-bells begin: 

No sooner the bells leave off than the diligence rattles in: 

You get the pick of the news, and it costs you never a pin. 

By and by there's the travelling doctor gives pills, lets blood, draws teeth; 

Or the Pulcinello-trumpet breaks up the market beneath. 

At the post-office such a scene-picture—the new play, piping hot! 

And a notice how, only this morning, three liberal thieves were shot. 

Above it, behold the Archbishop's most fatherly of rebukes, 

And beneath, with his crown and his lion, some little new law of the Duke's! 

Or a sonnet with flowery marge, to the Reverend Don So-and so, 

Who is Dante, Boccaccio, Petrarca, Saint Jerome and Cicero, 

"And moreover," (the sonnet goes rhyming,) "the skirts of Saint Paul has reached, 

Having preached us those six Lent-lectures more unctuous than ever he preached." 

Noon strikes,—here sweeps the procession! our Lady borne smiling and smart 

With a pink gauze gown all spangles, and seven swords stuck in her heart! 

Bang-whang-whang goes the drum, tootle-te-tootle the fife. 

No keeping one's haunches still: it's the greatest pleasure in life. 

But bless you, it's dear—it's dear! fowls, wine, at double the rate. 

They have clapped a new tax upon salt, and what oil pays passing the gate 

It's a horror to think of. And so, the villa for me, not the city! 

Beggars can scarcely be choosers: but still—ah, the pity, the pity! 

Look, two and two go the priests, then the monks with cowls and sandals, 

And the penitents dressed in white shirts a-holding the yellow candles; 

One, he carries a flag up straight, and another a cross with handles. 

And the Duke's guard brings up the rear, for the better prevention of scandals: 

Bang-whang-whang goes the drum, tootle-te-tootle the fife; 

Oh, a day in the city-square, there is no such pleasure in life!

~ Robert Browning