  I GROW so very weary Of the city’s crowded street The babbling of voices The restlessness of feet. I often wish my friends would talk Less dexterous and less clever, And let me say a word about My old house and the weather. I long to stop those restless feet And if I only could, I’d still their babbling tongues awhile With back-home quietude. I long to let them know about Birches that stand together, And the hand that threw the blooms around My old house and the weather. But as it is I only take Mere twigs of it to town, The lilacs when they’re on the bush And roses tumbling round. And talk of fuss and feather, I think they’d best come out and My old house and the weather. |
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