Classic Poem

It is the habit of my feet
To tolerate the weary street,
Which daily I grow less inclined
To travel with consenting mind.
But now, amid the grime and gloom,
Persists a lingering old perfume
Of forest intimately known,
With hemlock music softly blown
From somewhere far beyond the view;
The pavements fade like things untrue
Before the all-persuasive grace
Of that far-off, familiar place.
If what I would not see, I must —
The sordid things, the city's dust —
Oh, strong in memory, rise and be
The old reality to me!