Oh, I'm weary of the town,
Where life's too hard for smiling--and the dreary houses frown,
And the very sun seems cruel in its glory, as it beats
Upon the miles of dusty roofs--the dreary squares and streets;
This sun that gilds the great St. Paul's--the golden cross and dome,
Is this the same that shines upon our little church at home?
Our little church is gray,
It stands upon a hill-side--you can see it miles away,
The rooks sail round its tower, and the plovers from the moor.
I used to see the daisies through the low-arched framing door,
When all the wood and meadow with June's sunshine were ablaze,--
Then the sun had ways of shining that it hasn't nowadays.
There are elm trees all around
Where the birds and bees in summer make a murmuring music-sound,
And on the quiet pastures the sheep-bells sound afar,
And you hear the low of cattle--where the red farm buildings are;
Oh! on that grass to rest my head and hear that old sweet tune,
And forget the cruel city--on this first blue day of June!
The grass is high--I know;
And the wind across the meadow is the same that used to blow;
But if my steps turned thither, on this golden first June day--
It would only be to count my dead--whom God has taken away.
That graveyard where the daisies grow--not yet my heart can bear
To pass that way--but oh, some day, some kind hand lay me there!