In City Streets

Yonder in the heather there’s a bed for sleeping, Drink for one athirst, ripe blackberries to eat; Yonder in the sun the merry hares go leaping, And the pool is clear for travel-wearied feet. Sorely throb my feet, a-tramping London highways, (Ah! the springy moss upon a northern moor!) Through the endless streets, the gloomy squares and byways, Homeless in the City, poor among the poor! London streets are gold—ah, give me leaves a-glinting ’Midst grey dykes and hedges in the autumn sun! London water’s wine, poured out for all unstinting⁠— God! For the little brooks that tumble as they run! Oh, my heart is fain to hear the soft wind blowing, Soughing through the fir-tops up on northern fells! Oh, my eye’s an ache to see the brown burns flowing Through the peaty soil and tinkling heatherbells.