Sara Teasdale — From The North

THE northern woods are delicately sweet,      The lake is folded softly by the shore,      But I am restless for the subway's 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 heaven's door I watched the world from God's unshaken seat. I would go back and breathe with quickened sense     The tunnel's 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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