Worn With The City Poem by Philip Henry Savage

Worn with the city, out I go,
Where the cool green plantations grow;
With curious eye observe the shine
Of silver on the stalwart pine,
The beech and oak; on the granite fells
See the sharp cedar-sentinels
Advance, each one a shafted thyrse,
Cone-capped, among the javelin firs.
Involved by barriers, and perplexed,
By mere unyielding pavement vexed,
In spirit from the town I run
To meet the gracious horizon,

Which patient round my centre lies
With axle pointed in the skies;
In th' unblockaded blue to find
A clean refreshment for the mind.