The Sweet Places
I want to go back to the sweet mysterious places,
The crook in the creek-bed nobody knew but me,
Where the roots in the bank thrust out strange knotty faces,
Scaring the squirrels who stole there timidly.
I want to lie under the corn and hear it rustle,
Cool and green in a long, straight, soldierly row,
I am tired of white-faced women and men of iron.
I want to go back where the country grasses grow.
To the well-remembered pasture's shadiest corner,
Where under the trees the wild ferns wove their laces;
Hearing the whip-poor-will's voice in its strange, rich sadness—
I want to go back to the old beloved places.