Ho! green fields and running brooks!
Knotted strings and fishing-hooks
Of the truant, stealing down
Weedy backways of the town.
Where the sunshine overlooks,
By green fields and running brooks,
All intruding guests of chance
With a golden tolerance,
Cooing doves, or pensive pair
Of picnickers, straying there–
By green fields and running brooks,
Sylvan shades and mossy nooks!
And–O Dreamer of the Days,
Murmurer of roundelays
All unsung of words or books,
Sing green fields and running brooks!
James Whitcomb Riley
Art, travel & photos 
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