It were your lot to find a spot, unknown by selfish men,
Where you might be securely free, like eremite of old,
From worldly guile, from woman's wile, and friendships brief and cold.
Motherwell.
37. You love the fields, the woods, the streams,
The wild-flowers fresh and sweet,
And yet you love no less than these
The crowded city street;
For haunts of men, where'er they be,