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Sidney Lanier - From The Flats.
Work rating: Low

   What heartache — ne`er a hill!
Inexorable, vapid, vague and chill
The drear sand-levels drain my spirit low.
With one poor word they tell me all they know;
Whereat their stupid tongues, to tease my pain,
Do drawl it o`er again and o`er again.
They hurt my heart with griefs I cannot name:
   Always the same, the same.

   Nature hath no surprise,
No ambuscade of beauty `gainst mine eyes
From brake or lurking dell or deep defile;
No humors, frolic forms — this mile, that mile;
No rich reserves or happy-valley hopes
Beyond the bend of roads, the distant slopes.
Her fancy fails, her wild is all run tame:
   Ever the same, the same.

   Oh might I through these tears
But glimpse some hill my Georgia high uprears,
Where white the quartz and pink the pebble shine,
The hickory heavenward strives, the muscadine
Swings o`er the slope, the oak`s far-falling shade
Darkens the dogwood in the bottom glade,
And down the hollow from a ferny nook
   Bright leaps a living brook!
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