This is the place where hills loom far,
Where the scattered farms and islands are,
And all the marching trees;
Where fields lie sunny and roads twist brown;
Where the wharves are listing and
With salt tides round their knees.
This is the place where orchard boughs
Are seaward crooked, and from each square house
Wood-smoke climbs the skies;
Where old farm wagons are painted blue,
Where every sail has a patch or two,
And the windows shine like eyes.