Poems (Hinchman)/When tir'd men Summer treadeth down with might
VII
When tir'd men Summer treadeth down with might,
Nor gives relief to young, nor sick, nor old,
But multiplies their pain an hundredfold,
Making their burdens great that now were light;
When high noon beateth in the streets as white
As any sun that tropic countries hold;
When morn doth weary with her weight of gold,
And day calls day across the shade of night;
Nor gives relief to young, nor sick, nor old,
But multiplies their pain an hundredfold,
Making their burdens great that now were light;
When high noon beateth in the streets as white
As any sun that tropic countries hold;
When morn doth weary with her weight of gold,
And day calls day across the shade of night;
Amid all noise that in the heat seems near,
Amid all cries that seem a city's sigh,
More loud than drums, and constant as the breath
That beareth sighs; in this great city here,
My heart cries out for tree, and field, and sky,
And my soul wants one flower that blossometh.
Amid all cries that seem a city's sigh,
More loud than drums, and constant as the breath
That beareth sighs; in this great city here,
My heart cries out for tree, and field, and sky,
And my soul wants one flower that blossometh.