III—_Within the City Gates_

We can but dream of murmuring rills

Mad racing down the wooded hills,

Of meadow flowers and balmy days

When robin sings his amorous lays;

And lost among the city's ways,

To us it is not given to gaze

In wonder as the morning haze

Lifts from the sea of daffodils,—

Of all but those on window-sills

We can but dream.