Henry Timrod (1828–1867)

I SCARCELY grieve, O Nature! at the lot

That pent my life within a city’s bounds,

And shut me from thy sweetest sights and sounds.

Perhaps I had not learned, if some lone cot

Had nursed a dreamy childhood, what the mart

Taught me amid its turmoil; so my youth

Had missed full many a stern but wholesome truth.

Here, too, O Nature! in this haunt of Art,

Thy power is on me, and I own thy thrall.

There is no unimpressive spot on earth!

The beauty of the stars is over all,

And Day and Darkness visit every hearth.

Clouds do not scorn us: yonder factory’s smoke

Looked like a golden mist when morning broke.