You country-born and bred, small creature, fly!
Away from this sweet place, so fresh and quiet;
I cannot find the strength even to die,
But must sit dreaming over fields of corn
And cattle lowing, watching the earth turn
Under plows; and lambs in pasture, born.

Wretched am I, who, longing for concrete,
Expire in chafing rage where life's abundant;
Crying bitterly for city street!

I don't appreciate a spring that drowns me,
Overwhelms and smothers; rather that I heard
A push-cart vendor crying "daffodils!"; to me
That's spring --or one lonely southern bird!

Spring should be rare, and hard to find;
I'm a city pauper, with a longing
To search for things in my own mind!
Fool! Stupid pastoral creature, if you'd stay,
Prosaic and content --
Give me those wasted wings, who would, away!