This Is the Place

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 tumble-down

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.