You adore your towns and cities with their dizzying heights of brick
Throbbing with the din that rises from below,
And a mention of your factories sends your pulses to the quick .mw-parser-output .nowrap,.mw-parser-output .nowrap a:before,.mw-parser-output .nowrap .selflink:before{white-space:nowrap}– –
Nay the very soul within you seems to grow;
With your planes you scale the heavens and explore the wastes beyond
While you perforate the earth's crust with your mines;
Yet, in spite of all your glories, I can still be dearly fond
Of my humble little cabin in the pines.
You are wont to sit and listen to the harmony of bands,
Or careen and prance in tune with modern jazz;
Graphophones and radios fetch haunting strains from distant lands – –
Ah, the wonders that your modern public has!
Yes, your melodies are snappy with the charm your senses yearn,
They intoxicate you all like Asian wines;
But for my own heart's contentment I shall always rather turn
To the lull of softly moaning, sighing pines.
Oh, I know you could not live there in that God-forsaken spot
Where you'd see no "cops" command a traffic flood;
But you'd neither need persipre at night for fear of being shot
By the thugs that haunt your streets for coin and blood.
There is peace and there is quiet, far more safe than in your parks,
In those virgin groves that skirt the timber-lines – – – –
Man has not effaced by progress the Creator's fingermarks
That remain in His great garden of the pines.
George A. Gallik ’27.