From The North
By Sara Teasdale
The northern woods are delicately sweet,
The lake is folded softly by the shore,
But I am restless for the subways roar,
The thunder and the hurrying of feet.
I try to sleep, but still my eyelids beat
Against the image of the tower that bore
Me high aloft, as if thru heavens door
I watched the world from Gods unshaken seat.
I would go back and breathe with quickened sense
The tunnels strong hot breath of powdered steel;
But at the ferries I should leave the tense
Dark air behind, and I should mount and be
One among many who are thrilled to feel
The first keen sea-breath from the open sea.