Far From the Madding Crowd

It seems to me I’d like to go Where bells don’t ring nor whistles blow, Nor clocks don’t strike nor gongs don’t sound, But where there’s stillness all around. Not real still stillness; just the trees’ Low whisperings or the croon of bees; The drowsy tinklings of the rill, Or twilight song of whippoorwill. ’Twould be a joy could I behold The dappled fields of green and gold, Or in the cool, sweet clover lie And watch the cloud-ships drifting by. I’d like to find some quaint old boat, And fold its oars, and with it float Along the lazy, limpid stream Where water-lilies drowse and dream. Sometimes it seems to me I must Just quit the city’s din and dust, For fields of green and skies of blue; And, say! How does it seem to you?