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.