igrow so very weary

of the city’s crowded street

the babbling of voices

the restlessness of feet.

i often wish my friends would talk

less dexterous and less clever,

and let me say a word about

my old house and the weather.

i long to stop those restless feet

and if i only could,

i’d still their babbling tongues awhile

with back-home quietude.

i long to let them know about

birches that stand together,

and the hand that threw the blooms around

my old house and the weather.

but as it is i only take

mere twigs of it to town,

the lilacs when they’re on the bush

and roses tumbling round.{43}

but folks forget so hurriedly

and talk of fuss and feather,

i think they’d best come out and

my old house and the weather.