He craves to sit beside the shady buttress
Of some ancient tree,
Or better still, on some abandoned beach,
Or on a ferny hillside sloping down
To no self-centered town
He would sit him by the gnarled old trunk

And think – what thought!
He would haunt the pebbly rim of shore,
Exult in wind and booming wave and sky!
And yet should one day come
When he could tramp the open spaces and revel
In clean unbounded greenness,
With many backwards looks,
Or he may not even stir at all!
The little town, the changeless, busy life,
Is much to loved,
Is too familiarly – alas! – beloved.

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