Miles away from the dusty town, Out in the beautiful June-time weather, The wind of the south is rippling down, And over the purple hills of heather. Dim, in the distance, the city walls Rise, like the walls of a dreary prison; On the healing sward where the sunshine falls, We stand ’mid the flowery folk arisen. We watch their innocent eyelids ope, And below we hear the river flowing; While wilting sweet on the upland slope Lies the grass of the early mowing. On through the bees and butterflies, The grass and the flowers, the hours are walking; And we seem to catch their low replies To the flowing waters forever talking. We listen and question the fathomless space, In the deeps of its emerald silence lying, While we watch the leaves turning face to face, And their lovers—the winds—wooing and sighing. And still, like a dream, fades the dusty town, And dumb on our ear dies its distant murmur; But the speech, in the stilly air steals down, And the fainting heart grows calmer and firmer. Hearts that ache with a wounding smart, Wander out from the heedless city; The human yearning on Nature’s heart Is a thing that God in his love must pity. Sorrow and sin are in the mart, And greed and gain killing tender feeling; Here we draw close to the god Pan’s heart, And feel on _our_ hearts his touch of healing. Often we ask, is there room to grow ’Neath the bands of the earth, so hard and binding? The wisdom of life we are fain to know; Does it ever pay for the pain of finding? So, far away from the dissonant town, Out in the marvellous June-time weather, We climb the hills to their blossoming crown, And rest and gather our flowers together. Lo! we gather our flowers to-day, We are like thee, O restless river— We loiter for play on our endless way— While life, our life, rolls on forever. CHAPTER XIX. INSIDE THE WHITE HOUSE—SHADOWS OF THE PAST.