A MAN grows sick of the walls of brick, and the city's endless roar, when old winter goes, with its frosts and snows, and the springtime's at the door. His soul rebels at the city's smells, and he says to himself, says he, "There are banks of thyme with a scent sublime, and the woodland's calling me!" His soul revolts at the jars and jolts that the urban dweller knows, at his sordid task, when he longs to bask in the glen where the cowslip grows; and he says, "Gee whiz! I am tired of biz, and sick of the sights I see, of the stress and strain for a tawdry gain, when the woodland's calling me!" In all human lives, when the spring arrives, there riseth the wanderlust; and a fellow's dreams are of woods and streams, and the long road white with dust. And he heaves a sob as he views his job, from which he won't dare to flee; and he says, "By Hoyle! It is hard to toil, when the woodland's calling me!" | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...RUGBY CHAPEL by MATTHEW ARNOLD WYNKEN, BLYNKEN AND NOD by EUGENE FIELD THE FIVE STUDENTS by THOMAS HARDY THE BROOK: WINTER by LAURA ABELL JERUSALEM; THE EMANATION OF THE GIANT ALBION: CHAPTER 4 by WILLIAM BLAKE |