Nature selects the longest way,
-And winds about in tortuous grooves;
A thousand years the oaks decay;
-The wrinkled glacier hardly moves.

But here the whetted fangs of change
-Daily devour the old demesne -
The busy farm, the quiet grange,
-The wayside inn, the village green.

In gaudy yellow brick and red,
-With rooting pipes, like creepers rank,
The shoddy terraces o'erspread
-Meadow, and garth, and daisied bank.

With shelves for rooms the houses crowd,
-Like draughty cupboards in a row -
Ice-chests when wintry winds are loud,
-Ovens when summer breezes blow.

Roused by the fee'd policeman's knock,
-And sad that day should come again,
Under the stars the workmen flock
-In haste to reach the workmen's train.

For here dwell those who must fulfil
-Dull tasks in uncongenial spheres,
Who toil through dread of coming ill,
-And not with hope of happier years -

The lowly folk who scarcely dare
-Conceive themselves perhaps misplaced,
Whose prize for unremitting care
-Is only not to be disgraced