For City Folk

I like to leave the toilsome town
And go where roads wind up and down
That are not straight like Oxford Street,
Or noisy with a million feet.

For you may travel half a shire,
And only glimpse a distant spire.
Or maybe walk from dawn to dark
And only hear a soaring lark.

And there are flowers by the way,
And fields and farms and stacks of hay;
Woods and lanes and little streams
That sing the songs you hear in dreams.

And where the hills fold softly down
You find a hamlet or a town
With little churches grey and old
Where country people's prayers are told.

The ancient houses dark and low
Were built by folk dead long ago,
Who clipped their trees with quaint designs
And there are inns with hanging signs.

The White Hart or the Pelican,
Fit resting place for any man;
With paintings of old powdered heads,
And big four-poster feather beds.

And though they do not know your name,
Or where you go or whence you came,
The people have a friendly way,
They nod to you and cry "Good-day!"

So when you find the city street,
Is hot and hollow to your feet.
And when you find the noise and stress
Invading your heart's quietness,

Then straightway you must turn and go
To where the roads wind high and low,
And find the peacefulness that fills,
The quiet foldings of the hills.