Whose spell thou knowest, thou dear Earth, none other.
For I am weary of the city’s sorrow,
Captive and weary, longing for a morrow
That shall release me from these walls, my prison;
My eyes are sickened with the surging faces,
And fain would gaze across thy sunlit spaces,
Seeking the happy lark but newly risen.
My ears are deafened by the great pulse beating
Along the streets, monotonous, repeating
Its throbs of toil, futile yet never ending.