The City

Out on the downs the wind blows fresh
The wind that blows from the sea.
But I am trapped in the city's mesh,
The wind blows not for me.

Out on the downs the Pilgrim's Way
Lies white in the southern sun.
But my feet are held to the pavement grey.
For there is work to be done.

Over the downs the white clouds sail
Like ships on a sapphire sea.
Over the city a black smoke veil—
The clouds are not for me.

Out on the downs the flower and tree,
The bee with his lazy hum.
The bird and the brook, they call to me,
They call, but I may not come.

Out on the downs the Pilgrims trod.
My heart would sing and be free.
But here in the city with Mammon god
There is no joy for me.