Brown Arms (To Mother)

Listen, O brown, kind mother,

I am weary and I would rest;

Put your old, warm arms about me,

Let me lie on your withered breast.

I am very sick of cities—

Of faces cold and strange—

I long for your sun-washed spaces,

Blue skies and wind-swept range.

I am sick of the huddled houses,

And the selfish hearts of men:

Put your warm, kind arms about me,

Let me lie on your heart again.