by Sara Teasdale
Places I love come back to me like music,
 Hush me and heal me when I am very tired;
I see the oak woods at Saxton's flaming
 In a flare of crimson by the frost newly fired;
And I am thirsty for the spring in the valley
 As for a kiss ungiven and long desired.
I know a bright world of snowy hills at Boonton,
 A blue and white dazzling light on everything one sees,
The ice-covered branches of the hemlocks sparkle
 Bending low and tinkling in the sharp thin breeze,
And iridescent crystals fall and crackle on the snow-crust
 With the winter sun drawing cold blue shadows from the trees.
Violet now, in veil on veil of evening
 The hills across from Cromwell grow dreamy and far;
A wood-thrush is singing soft as a viol
 In the heart of the hollow where the dark pools are;
The primrose has opened her pale yellow flowers
 And heaven is lighting star after star.
Places I love come back to me like music —
 Mid-ocean, midnight, the waves buzz drowsily;
In the ship's deep churning the eerie phosphorescence
 Is like the souls of people who were drowned at sea,
And I can hear a man's voice, speaking, hushed, insistent,
 At midnight, in mid-ocean, hour on hour to me.