Explore "June" by Edith Nesbit on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
Oh, I'm weary of the town, / Where life's too hard for smiling -- and the dreary houses frown, / And the very sun seems cruel in its glory, as it beats / Upon the miles of dusty roofs -- the dreary squares and streets; / This sun that gilds the great St. Paul's -- the golden cross and dome, / Is this the same that shines upon our little church at home?
Our little church is gray, / It stands upon a hill-side -- you can see it miles away, / The rooks sail round its tower, and the plovers from the moor.