When lights are low, and the day has died, I sit and dream of the countryside. Where sky meets earth at the meadow's end, I dream of a clean and wind-swept space Where each tall tree is a staunch old friend, And each frail bud turns a trusting face. A purling brook, with each purl a prayer, To the bending grass its secret tells; While, softly borne on the scented air, Comes the far-off chime of chapel bells. A tiny cottage I seem to see, In its quaint old garden set apart; And a Sabbath calm steals over me, While peace dwells deep in my brooding heart. And I thank whatever gods look down That I am living right here in town. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...BOSTON COMMON: 1774 by OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES A SHROPSHIRE LAD: 27 by ALFRED EDWARD HOUSMAN A JAPANESE FAN by MARGARET VELEY THE ARTIST by EDWARD ROBERT BULWER-LYTTON TAM SAMSON'S ELEGY by ROBERT BURNS UHLAND by WILLIAM ALLEN BUTLER |