Is it the song of a meadow lark

Off the brown, sere salt marshes,

Or the eager patches in dooryards

Of yellow and pale lilac crocuses;

Or else the suburban street golden with sunlight,

And the bare branches of elm trees

Twined in the delicate sky?

Or is it the merry piping

Of a distant hurdy-gurdy?—

That makes me so weary and faint with desire

For strange lands and new scents;

For the rough-rhythmed clank

Of train couplings at night,

And the stormy, gay-tinted sunrises

That shade with purple the contours

Of far-off, unfamiliar hills.