Sara Teasdale — Places

Places I love come back to me like music,        &nbsp Hush me and heal me when I am very tired; I see the oak woods at Saxton's flaming        &nbsp In a flare of crimson by the frost newly fired; And I am thirsty for the spring in the valley        &nbsp As for a kiss ungiven and long desired. I know a bright world of snowy hills at Boonton,        &nbsp A blue and white dazzling light on everything one sees, The ice-covered branches of the hemlocks sparkle        &nbsp Bending low and tinkling in the sharp thin breeze, And iridescent crystals fall and crackle on the snow-crust        &nbsp With the winter sun drawing cold blue shadows from the trees. Violet now, in veil on veil of evening        &nbsp The hills across from Cromwell grow dreamy and far; A wood-thrush is singing soft as a viol        &nbsp In the heart of the hollow where the dark pools are; The primrose has opened her pale yellow flowers        &nbsp And heaven is lighting star after star. Places I love come back to me like music—        &nbsp Mid-ocean, midnight, the waves buzz drowsily; In the ship's deep churning the eerie phosphorescence        &nbsp Is like the souls of people who were drowned at sea, And I can hear a man's voice, speaking, hushed, insistent,        &nbsp At midnight, in mid-ocean, hour on hour to me.