A Mood

Mood I'm sick of the dirt and the strife and the din Of political scandals; of rumors of sin; Of the pomp of the rich; of the wail of the poor; Of the incessant grafting ; the glitter and lure ; And I'm sick of the faces I see without end— The faces of strangers with never a friend; I'm sick of the tumult of passions that play Such a havoc with peace in my heart every day,— The passions of hate, of envy and pity, — O, I'm sick of it all! I'm sick of the city! And I long for a glimpse of a mountain so high That its 6now-covered summit is kissed by the sky. For the glint of a sunbeam, unsullied by smoke ; For the calm of a silence that's never been broke ; For the flash of a bird's wing high over green trees; For the smell of the woods wafted by on the breeze. For the deep sense of homage that bids me to kneel And pour out my love for all that I feel. Yes, I long once again to sip from those fountains Of courage and faith to be found in the mountains. Elsie C. Carroll Chicago, III.