In the Country

THIS life is sweetest; in this wood

I hear no children cry for food;

I see no woman, white with care;

No man, with muscled wasting here.

No doubt it is a selfish thing

To fly from human suffering;

No doubt he is a selfish man,

Who shuns poor creatures, sad and wan.

But 'tis a wretched life to face

Hunger in almost every place;

Cursed with a hand that's empty, when

The heart is full to help all men.

Can I admire the statue great,

When living men starve at its feet!

Can I admire the park's green tree,

A roof for homeless misery!

W.H. Davies

The Flood

I THOUGHT my true love slept;

Behind her chair I crept

And pulled out a long pin;

The golden flood came out,

She shook it all about,

With both our faces in.

Ah! little wren, I know

Your mossy, small nest now

A windy, cold place is;

No eye can see my face,

Howe'er it watch the place

Where I half drown in bliss.

When I am drowned hald dead,

She laughs and shakes her head;

Flogged by her hair-waves, I

Withdraw my face from there;

But never once, I swear,

She heard a mercy cry.

W.H. Davies

The Sluggard

A JAR of cider and my pipe,

In summer, under shady tree;

A book by one that made his mind

Live by its sweet simplicity:

Then must I laugh at kings who sit

In richest chambers, signing scrolls;

And princes cheered in public ways,

And stared at by a thousand fools.

Let me be free to wear my dreams,

Like weeds in some mad maiden's hair,

When she believes the earth has not

Another maid so rich and fair;

And proudly smiles on rich and poor,

The queen of all fair women then:

So I, dressen in my idle dreams,

Will think myself the king of men.

W.H. Davies

When on a Summer's Morn

WHEN on a summer's morn I wake,

And open my two eyes,

Out to the clear, born-singing rills

My bird-like spirit flies.

To hear the Blackbird, Cuckoo, Thrush,

Or any bird in song;

And common leaves that hum all day

Without a throat or tongue.

And when Time strikes the hour for sleep,

Back in my room alone,

My heart has many a sweet bird's song --

And one that's all my own.

W.H. Davies

Seeking Beauty

COLD winds can never freeze, nor thunder sour

The cup of cheer that Beauty draws for me

Out of those Azure heavens and this green earth --

I drink and drink, and thirst the more I see.

To see the dewdrops thrill the blades of grass,

Makes my whole body shake; for here's my choice

Of either sun or shade, and both are green --

A Chaffinch laughs in his melodious voice.

The banks are stormed by Speedwell, that blue flower

So like a little heaven with one star out;

I see an amber lake of buttercups,

And Hawthorn foams the hedges round about.

The old Oak tree looks now so green and young,

That even swallows perch awhile and sing:

This is that time of year, so sweet and warm,

When bats wait not for stars ere they take wing.

As long as I love Beauty I am young,

Am young or old as I love more or less;

When Beauty is not heeded or seems stale,

My life's a cheat, let Death end my distress.

W.H. Davies

The Hermit

WHAT moves that lonely man is not the boom

Of waves tht break agains the cliff so strong;

Nor roar of thunder, when that travelling voice

Is caught by rocks that carry far along.

'Tis not the groan of oak tree i its prime,

When lightning strikes its solid heart to dust;

Nor frozen pond when, melted by the sun,

It suddenly doth break its sparkling crust.

What moves that man is when the blind bat taps

His window when he sits alone at night;

Or when the small bird sounds like some great beast

Among the dead, dry leaves so fraiil and light.

Or when the moths on his night-pillow beat

Such heavy blows he fears they'll break his bones;

Or when a mouse inside the papered walls,

Comes like a tiger crunching through the stones.

W.H. Davies

April's Charms

WHEN April scatters charms of primrose gold

Among the copper leaves in thickets old,

And singing skylarks from the meadows rise,

To twinkle like black stars in sunny skies;

When I can hear the small woodpecker ring

Time on a tree for all the birds that sing;

And hear the pleasant cuckoo, loud and long --

The simple bird that thinks two notes a song;

When I can hear the woodland brook, that could

Not drown a babe, with all his threatening mood;

Upon these banks the violets make their home,

And let a few small strawberry vlossoms come:

When I go forth on such a pleasant day,

One breath outdoors takes all my cares away;

It goes like heavy smoke, when flames take hold

Of wood that's green and fill a grate with gold.

W.H. Davies

The Best Friend

NOW shall I walk

Or shall I ride?

"Ride", Pleasure said;

"Walk", Joy replied.

Now what shall I --

Stay home or roam?

"Roam", Pleasure said;

And Joy -- "stay home."

Now shall I dance,

Or sit for dreams?

"Sit," answers Joy;

"Dance," Pleasure screams.

Which of ye two

Will kindest be?

Pleasure laughed sweet,

But Joy kissed me.

W.H. Davies

Rich Days

WELCOME to you rich Autumn days,

Ere comes the cold, leaf-picking wind;

When golden stocks are seen in fields,

All standing arm-in-arm entwined;

And gallons of sweet cider seen

On trees in apples red and green.

With mellow pears that cheat our teeth,

Which melt that tongues may suck them in;

With blue-black damsons, yellow plums,

Now sweet and soft from stone to skin;

And woodnuts rich, to make us go

Into the loneliest lanes we know.

W.H. Davies

Where We Differ

TO think my thoughts are hers,

Not one of hers is mine;

She laughs -- while I must sigh;

She sighs -- while I must whine.

She eats -- while I must fast;

She reads -- while I am blind;

She sleeps -- while I must wake;

Free -- I no freedom find.

To think the world for me

Contains but her alone,

And that her eyes prefer

Some ribbon, scarf, or stone.

W.H. Davies

No Master

INDEED this is the sweet life! my hand

Is under no proud man's command;

There is no voice to break my rest

Before a bird has left its nest;

There is no man to change my mood,

When I go nutting in the wood;

No man to pluck my sleeve and say --

I want thy labour for this day;

No man to keep me out of sight,

When that dear Sun is shining bright.

None but my friends shall have command

Upon my time, my heart and hand;

I'll rise from sleep to help a friend,

But let no stranger orders send,

Or hear my curses fast and thick,

Which in his purse-proud throat would stick

Like burrs. If I cannot be free

To do such work as pleases me,

Near woodland pools and under trees,

You'll get no work at all, for I

Would rather live this life and die

A beggar or a thief, than be

A working slave with no days free.

W.H. Davies

A Plain Life

NO idle gold -- since this fine sun, my friend,

Is no mean miser, but doth freely spend.

No prescious stones -- since these green mornings show,

Without a charge, their pearls where'er I go.

No lifeless books -- since birds with their sweet tongues

Will read aloud to me their happier songs.

No painted scenes -- since clouds can change their skies

A hundred times a day to please my eyes.

No headstrong wine -- since, when I drink, the spring

Into my eager ears will softly sing.

No surplus clothes -- since every simple beast

Can teach me to be happy with the least.

W.H. Davies

Ale

NOW do I hear thee weep and groan,

Who hath a comrade sunk at sea?

Then quaff thee of my good old ale,

And it will raise him up for thee;

Thoul't think as little of him then

As when he moved with living men.

If thou hast hopes to move the world,

And every effort it doth fail,

Then to thy side call Jack and Jim,

And bid them drink with thee good ale;

So may the world, that would not hear,

Perish in hell with all your care.

One quart of good ale, and I

Feel then what life immortal is:

The brain is empty of all thought,

The heart is brimming o'er with bliss;

Time's first child, Life, doth live; but Death,

The second, hath not yet his breath.

Give me a quart of good old ale,

Am I a homeless man on earth?

Nay, I want not your roof and quilt,

I'll lie warm at the moon's cold hearth;

No grumbling ghost to grudge my bed,

His grave, ha! ha! holds up my head.

W.H. Davies

The Likeness

When I came forth this morn I saw

Quite twenty cloudlets in the air;

And then I saw a flock of sheep,

Which told me how these clouds came there.

That flock of sheep, on that green grass,

Well might it lie so still and proud!

Its likeness had been drawn in heaven,

On a blue sky, in silvery cloud.

I gazed me up, I gazed me down,

And swore, though good the likeness was,

'Twas a long way from justice done

To such white wool, such sparkling grass.

W.H. Davies

A Fleeting Passion

THOU shalt not laugh, thou shalt not romp,

Let's grimly kiss with bated breath;

As quietly and solemnly

As Life when it is kissing Death.

Now in the silence of the grave,

My hand is squeezing that soft breast;

While thou dost in such passion lie,

It mocks me with its look of rest.

But when the morning comes at last,

And we must part, our passions cold,

You'll think of some new feather, scarf

To buy with my small piece of gold;

And I'll be dreaming of green lanes,

Where little things with beating hearts

Hold shining eyes between the leaves,

Till men with horses pass, and carts.

W.H. Davies