There is nothing sweet in the city
But the patient lives of the poor.
Oh, the little hands too skillful,
And the child mind choked with weeds;
And the daughter’s heart grown willful,
And the father’s heart that bleeds.
“No, no, from the street’s rude bustle,
From the trophies of mart and stage,
I would fly to the woods’ low rustle,
And the meadows’ kindly page.