I HAVE grown tired of a tree,
And had a mountain weary me
As might some guest who stays too long
After the feasting and the song;
But I have never tired at all
Of the city's ceaseless carnival,
Or mountains made of brick and stone,
Raised by the hands of man alone.

I have been weary by the sea,
But never where humanity
Surges like some deep tide that beats
Day-long against the city streets;
Better than gardens Spring-endowed,
The hundred faces of a crowd,
Each with its history that lies
Clear-writ between the mouth and eyes.

God made some lives for silent places,
And some for tumult and men's faces.
And some find peace in flower and herb,
And some on a crowded, city curb.