I loved a meadow, shining fair and sweet, The clover's country and the lark's retreat; But pick and shovel laid my meadow bare, And now a collar factory is there. I loved a hill, my outlook high, serene, Where broadening spirit met the expanding scene; But now my hill, remorselessly torn down, Lies level in the roadways of a town. I loved a grove, a quiet, holy place, Whose breath was peace, and every leaf a grace; But now my grove, the home of seer and bard, Gluts the gaunt bareness of a lumber-yard. I loved a brook, whose murmuring currents ran To woodland shrines inviolate of man; But now my brook, with tamed and tortured will, Turns the dull grinding of a weary mill. I loved, the last of all, a glimpse of sky, With bird-wings and the cloud-wisps floating by; But now across my bit of heavenly scope Behold a kite-borne sign: "Use Baldwin Soap!" |