Sara Teasdale: Places


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.