Classic Poem

Not the rush and the tread
Of crowds in the city street,
But dusk in the still trees overhead
And the soft ferns under feet.

Not the roar of the throng
Where the shining windows gleam,
But a hermit-thrush in his evensong,
And a murmuring valley stream.

Not the dust and the cry
Of the hot streets walled with stone,
But white hill-mists, and the quiet sky
Where the wide, bright stars are strown!