Poetry Archives

Now this must be the sweetest place
  From here to heaven’s end;
The field is white and flowering lace,
  The birches leap and bend,

The hills, beneath the roving sun,
  From green to purple pass,
And little, trifling breezes run
  Their fingers through the grass.

So good it is, so gay it is,
  So calm it is, and pure.
A one whose eyes may look on this
  Must be the happier, sure.

But me—I see it flat and gray
  And blurred with misery,
Because a lad a mile away
  Has little need of me.