Jingle, tinkle, rattle, rumble through the glittering, shimmering street,
Hark to coach and carriage chiming with the pattering tramp of feet!
Crop-haired waiters run white-aproned to the call of ringing glass,
Lazy idlers, round small tables, eyeing idlers as they pass.

All the air is heated, heavy, gritty; oh, 'tis hard to tell
Whether fruit it be, or gravy, or tobacco that you smell;
For a very complex perfume goes up steaming to the stars
From twice twenty thousand cook-shops, from a million of cigars.
 
Jingle, tinkle, rattle, rumble through the glittering, shimmering streets,
Drive in time to ticket luggage, and get comfortable seats;
With a shoving, and a shouting, and a banging-to of doors,
Off at last, the train creaks, moves, grates, quickens, hurries, rushes, roars.

Happy he who sleeps securely in the arms of an express,
Whom nor row nor racket troubles, nor the jolts and jars distress!
Sweet it is to slumber soundly through the livelong summer night,
With legs propped upon the cushions, with dim blind drawn o'er the light.

Does a station break the sameness of monotonous rush-on?
Then queer dreams confuse the future with adventures that are gone.
Then he preaches from a "Murray;" stethoscopes with alpenstock;
Speculates in railway coupons; dooms a landlord in a dock.

Then an avalanche o'erwhelms him! 'Tis a hat-box from the rack;
Or he tumbles down an ice-hill with a mountain on his back,
And half wakes to find he's falling on a fellow-dreamer's knees,
Stiff and weary of contraction, like a wretch in Little Ease.

 But behold wan dawn before us, whispering a new day's birth;
See her roses bloom in cloudland, hear her morning hymn to earth;
Sending thankful music Godward, flinging incense in the air,
All the world's awake, and wondering how it came to wake so fair.

Hail, old lichened woods, that waft us dear remembered scent of pine;
Hail, mysterious winds that gladden like the giant's draught of wine;
Hail, high hills, that whoso loveth, loveth with a yearning love,
Everlasting shrines of worship, steppingstones to things above.

Through rent rocks, down winding gorges, rushes on our steed of steel,
Till a blue lake's shining waters purest heaven in earth reveal;
Cares, begone; unrest, go packing; come, contentment with the light;
Take the omen that the morning shall be gain upon the night.

Girdled with gold, my little lady's bower
Stands at the portals of a world in flower;
And on her shield the changing blossoms mark
How the spring grows each day from dawn to dark.

When forth she moves, her dainty foot is set
On cowslip, hyacinth, and violet;
And all day long the woodland minstrels ring
Changes of measure for her pleasuring.

And all night long a passionate music stirs
Without her walls the guardian belt of firs;
Hushed in their waving boughs, the low winds brood,
Murm'ring the sea's song for an interlude.

Within the darkness does my lady wake,
To hear her nightingales their music make,
And musing, Weep and wonder at the pain
That breaks through all the rapture of their strain?

Does the dawn rouse her with its murmurous flight
Of swallows glancing grey against the light,
To dream again of all the joys that lie
Folded within the new day's mystery?

Nay, through her world of blossom, flower-wise,
My lady moves with unawakened eyes;
She heeds not if the apple bloom be shed,
Nor if the hours pass by rose-garlanded.

No soft hopes greet her with first lily bells,
No memories smite her in wan asphodels,
Nor hears she when the autumn winds are borne
By their low cadence in the summer corn.
 
While thus unmoved my lady keeps her state,
Without her walls I year-long watch and wait;
Till she awake and summon me to bring
Low to her feet the secret of the spring.