FROM THE NORTH

By Sara Teasdale

THE northern woods are delicately sweet,

The lake is folded softly by the shore,

But I am restless for the subway's roar,

The thunder and the hurrying of feet.

I try to sleep, but still my eyelids beat

Against the image of the tower that bore

Me high aloft, as if thru heaven's door

I watched the world from God's unshaken seat.

I would go back and breathe with quickened sense

The tunnel's strong hot breath of powdered steel;

But at the ferries I should leave the tense

Dark air behind, and I should mount and be

One among many who are thrilled to feel

The first keen sea-breath from the open sea.