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 subway's 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 heaven's door
I watched the world from God's unshaken seat.
I would go back and breathe with quickened sense
  The tunnel's 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.

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