Кристофер Морли (Christopher Morley)

O Praise Me Not the Country

O praise me not the country—
The meadows green and cool,
The solemn glow of sunsets, the hidden silver pool!
    The city for my craving,
    Her lordship and her slaving,
    The hot stones of her paving
        For me, a city fool!

O praise me not the leisure
Of gardened country seats,
The fountains on the terrace against the summer heats—
    The city for my yearning,
    My spending and my earning.
    Her winding ways for learning,
        Sing hey! the city streets!

O praise me not the country,
Her sycamores and bees,
I had my youthful plenty of sour apple trees!
    The city for my wooing,
    My dreaming and my doing;
    Her beauty for pursuing,
        Her deathless mysteries.

O praise me not the country,
Her evenings full of stars,
Her yachts upon the water with the wind among their spars—
    The city for my wonder,
    Her glory and her blunder,
    And O the haunting thunder
        Of the Elevated cars! 

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