“But there are wings!” They brood against the sky, A cloudy wonder; while upon the deep She sees them dip and flutter, far and near. “The same kind wings that shelter one asleep!” So, drawing reassurance in a sigh, She digs the treacherous sand without a fear. SAFE? If I but set my casement high Where none peer in at me, I shall look only at the sky And the fair top of the tree. I shall forget the sorry things The swallows do not tell; I shall not see the wounded wings Of the little bird that fell. And if below there crawls a road, Where dusty travelers go, Groaning beneath a weary load— Why, I shall never know. I can pretend there is no sin, No pain and misery, If I gaze out where none look in To read the heart of me. THE UP-HILL STREET There’s a lane through grassy meadows, There’s a turnpike to the sea, There’s a trail across the mountain Which is very dear to me. There’s a shady, quiet roadway On the border of the town; There are footpaths going blithely Up the little hills and down. And oh! I love the highroads My happy feet have pressed. But walk at evening, walk at morn, There’s one I love the best. It is a narrow city street That clambers with a will Between two ragged cliffs of brick Upon a windy hill. I see it from my window, I watch it every day Slope to the level sky-verge Whereon it melts away; While etched across the picture Stands straight and strong and tall, The oak tree that I planted When I was very small. Above, a narrow sky-way The houses frame for me; Beyond, across the city— Though I can hardly see— I know the blue bay opens, With towering blocks between; I feel, I smell, I hear it When winds blow east and keen! And I have dwelt here always; A child I saw it climb, The quaint, forgotten byway, Unmarked by change or time.