PRACTICAL by AMOS RUSSEL WELLS

I loved a meadow, shining fair and sweet,
The clover's country and the lark's retreat;
But pick and shovel laid my meadow bare,
And now a collar factory is there.

I loved a hill, my outlook high, serene,
Where broadening spirit met the expanding scene;
But now my hill, remorselessly torn down,
Lies level in the roadways of a town.

I loved a grove, a quiet, holy place,
Whose breath was peace, and every leaf a grace;
But now my grove, the home of seer and bard,
Gluts the gaunt bareness of a lumber-yard.

I loved a brook, whose murmuring currents ran
To woodland shrines inviolate of man;
But now my brook, with tamed and tortured will,
Turns the dull grinding of a weary mill.

I loved, the last of all, a glimpse of sky,
With bird-wings and the cloud-wisps floating by;
But now across my bit of heavenly scope
Behold a kite-borne sign: "Use Baldwin Soap!"

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