I SAID, 'I am so tired of all the old tired faces
In the crowded places,
I tire of all the weary steps that cross and beat
Down the long swift street:'
I said, 'I will return into my own still room,
Thick with peace and gloom.'

I said, 'I will summon up the still bright streams
Of my trooping dreams,
Whose faces are as weariless and calm and young
As a bird-note sung,
Who drift along with sunset-colored robes outblowing,
Of all need unknowing.'

And then . . . the sun shone cloudless, and the wind blew fleet
Down the long swift street
And through the windowed canyon's end the sky's sweet blue
Shone unwearied through,
And I said, 'But I must stay, for see, my brother's faces
Here in God's own places!'