In a London Garret.
Outside, I hear the hurry of men’s feet,1
Tramping the tortuous ways for this world’s gold ;2
And the huge City irks me with its old3
And ceaseless roar of traffic in the street.4
Within these walls, in rain or frost or heat,5
I tremble with desire to tread the wold,6
And breathe the clean air scented by the mould,7
Where purple heather and pure water meet.8
Ah ! how these last sweet roses madden me9
With longing for the mountains, vales, and fields !10
Some day, perchance, when Spring or Summer yields11
His rapturous store of beauty, I shall be12
Beside the foaming margin of the sea,13
Or roaming over hills or shady wealds.14