Classic Poem

You like the country better than the town
And very willingly would dwell therein
Afar from the intolerable din
That makes New York a barbarous Babylon;
But far more willingly would I be gone
From all this mad bombardment of the brain
To fields where still and comely thoughts may reign
Deep in your stately mansion old and brown,
And coloured like a Springtime copper beech:
My God, I would give anything to reach
Your old house standing in the misty rain,
And turn my thoughts to things that do not pass,
While gazing through a window at the grass
And wet young oak leaves fingering the pane.