Hill Hunger

I want to stride the hills! My feet cry out For hills! Oh, I am sick to death of streets: The nausea of pavements and people always about; The savagery of mortar and steel that beats Me under, hedges me in; the iron shiver Of traffic!—I want to stride the hills, I want Hills toned frantic silver or a quiver Of scarlet; hills that hunger and grow gaunt! I am tired of steps and steps, and a thousand flights Of stairs resounding, shuffling, quarreling With shoes. I want a hill on windy nights, When April pauses with me, clambering Over the purple side to the top, until We pull ourselves up by a star—the hill! the hill!