From The North
by Sara Teasdale
The northern woods are delicately sweet, The lake is folded softly by the shore, But I am restless for the subways roar, The thunder and the hurrying of feet. I try to sleep, but still my eyelids beat Against the image of the tower that bore Me high aloft, as if thru heavens door I watched the world from Gods unshaken seat. I would go back and breathe with quickened sense The tunnels strong hot breath of powdered steel; But at the ferries I should leave the tense Dark air behind, and I should mount and be One among many who are thrilled to feel The first keen sea-breath from the open sea.
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