The windy hills New England farmers took.
Along with slamming doors and rattling panes
And blasts of blizzards off Laurentian plains,
For a broad and various, free, egregious outlook.
No stifling hollows air for high land lovers.
A hill borne, clear keen wind the chest unbands.
Roots and fruits rot in unstirred low- land damps.
The soul also, closed in, molders and smothers.
Site seekers on the ridge roads envy the views
These many-windowed farm homes gleam to behold
At dusk they eastward gaze to find the gold
Of childhood dreams mirrored in glassy hues.
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