Two worlds there are for mortal men,
As far apart as pole from pole,
Each lifted from the other's ken
To solace each a separate soul;
The world of bustle, cramp, and crowd,
Of clanking wheels and clanging bells —
And a dear world of wind and cloud,
And fenceless plains and open fells.

The jungle weird with stripe and tusk;
The Bush with starry silence twined;
The camp fire rosy in the dusk,
The boughs against the darkness lined;
The shrill cicadas in the trees
That hail the night with myriad hum;
The whisper of the mountain breeze,
The magic pine-tops calling " come! "

Some love the thunder of the street,
Some love the steeples straight and tall,
They think their busy lives complete —
But have they tasted life at all
Who have not, when the first bird ceased,
Through dew-wet tent-flaps backward drawn
Discovered in the purple East
The dim uncertainty of dawn?