Away from the silent hills and the talking
of upland waters,
The high still stars and the lonely moon
in her quarters,
I fly to the city, the streets, the faces, the towers;
And I leave behind me the hush and the dews
and the flowers,
The mink that steals by the stream a-shimmer
among the rocks,
The hawk o'er the barn-yard sailing, the little cub-bear
and the fox,
The woodchuck and his burrow, and the little snake at noon,
And the house of the yellow-jacket, and the cricket's
endless tune.

And what shall I find in the city that shall take
the place of these?
O I shall find my love there, and fall at her silken knees,
And for the moon her breast, and for the stars her eyes,
And under her shadowed hair the gardens of Paradise.