There’s a lane through grassy meadows,
There’s a turnpike to the sea,
There’s a trail across the mountain
Which is very dear to me.
There’s a shady, quiet roadway
On the border of the town;
There are footpaths going blithely
Up the little hills and down.
And oh! I love the highroads
My happy feet have pressed.
But walk at evening, walk at morn,
There’s one I love the best.
It is a narrow city street
That clambers with a will
Between two ragged cliffs of brick
Upon a windy hill.
I see it from my window,
I watch it every day
Slope to the level sky-verge
Whereon it melts away;
While etched across the picture
Stands straight and strong and tall,
The oak tree that I planted
When I was very small.
Above, a narrow sky-way
The houses frame for me;
Beyond, across the city—
Though I can hardly see—
I know the blue bay opens,
With towering blocks between;
I feel, I smell, I hear it
When winds blow east and keen!
And I have dwelt here always;
A child I saw it climb,
The quaint, forgotten byway,
Unmarked by change or time.
How often have I trod it!
Each brick and stone I know!
Each little rise and hollow
Though hidden under snow.
And looking from my window
I almost think to see
A childish figure climbing—
The little shade of Me.
But as I watch her, smiling—
The child who once was I—
My Fancy climbs the little hill
And merges in the sky.