William Henry Davies

A summer's morning that has but one voice; Five hundred stocks, like golden lovers, lean Their heads together, in their quiet way,

When I sailed out of Baltimore With twice a thousand head of sheep, They would not eat, they would not drink,

Thou shalt not laugh, thou shalt not romp, Let's grimly kiss with bated breath; As quietly and solemnly

Sweet Chance, that led my steps abroad, Beyond the town, where wild flowers grow - A rainbow and a cuckoo, Lord,

Good morning, Life, and all Things glad and beautiful. My pockets nothing hold,

The sky is clear, The sun is bright; The cows are red,

A wondrous city, that had temples there More rich than that one built by David's son, Which called forth Ophir's gold, when Israel

My purse is yours, Sweet Heart, for I Can count no coins with you close by; I scorn like sailors them, when they

Ah, sweet young blood, that makes the heart So full of joy, and light, That dying children dance with it

When our two souls have left this mortal clay And, seeking mine, you think that mine is lost - Look for me first in that Elysian glade

I hear a merry noise indeed: Is it the geese and ducks that take Their first plunge in a quiet pond

Christmas has come, let's eat and drink, This is no time to sit and think; Farewell to study, books and pen,

I hear it said yon land is poor, In spite of those rich cowslips there - And all the singing larks it shoots

When primroses are out in Spring, And small, blue violets come between; When merry birds sing on boughs green,

Thou art not always kind, O sleep: What awful secrets them dost keep In store, and ofttimes make us know;

I know not why I yearn for thee again, To sail once more upon thy fickle flood; I'll hear thy waves wash under my death-bed,

What exultations in my mind, From the love-bite of this Easter wind! My head thrown back, my face doth shine

We have no grass locked up in ice so fast That cattle cut their faces and at last, When it is reached, must lie them down and starve,

Thou hadst no home, and thou couldst see In every street the windows' light: Dragging thy limbs about all night,

The Lark that in heaven dim Can match a rainy hour With his own music's shower,

The bird of Fortune sings when free, But captured, soon grows dumb; and we, To hear his fast declining powers,

Yes, I will spend the livelong day With Nature in this month of May; And sit beneath the trees, and share

The birds are pirates of her notes, The blossoms steal her face's light; The stars in ambush lie all day,

If I were gusty April now, How I would blow at laughing Rose; I'd make her ribbons slip their knots,

This life is jolly, O! I envy no man's lot; My eyes can much admire,

My back is turned on Spring and all her flowers, The birds no longer charm from tree to tree; The cuckoo had his home in this green world

Tell them, when you are home again, How warm the air was now; How silent were the birds and leaves,

Give me the chance, and I will make Thy thoughts of me, like worms this day, Take wings and change to butterflies

Few are my books, but my small few have told Of many a lovely dame that lived of old; And they have made me see those fatal charms

There goes mad Poll, dressed in wild flowers, Poor, crazy Poll, now old and wan; Her hair all down, like any child:

My youth was my old age, Weary and long; It had too many cares

They hear the bell of midnight toll, And shiver in their flesh and soul; They lie on hard, cold wood or stone,

Oh, sweet content, that turns the labourer's sweat To tears of joy, and shines the roughest face; How often have I sought you high and low,

We poets pride ourselves on what We feel, and not what we achieve; The world may call our children fools,

God's pity on poor kings, They know no gentle rest; The North and South cry out,

Sing for the sun your lyric, lark, Of twice ten thousand notes; Sing for the moon, you nightingales,

My song is of that city which Has men too poor and men too rich; Where some are sick, too richly fed,

Joy, how I sought thee! Silver I spent and gold, On the pleasures of this world,

I saw a black girl once, As black as winter's night; Till through her parted lips

Sometimes I hear fine ladies sing, Sometimes I smoke and drink with men; Sometimes I play at games of cards,

The bird that now On bush and tree, Near leaves so green

Sweet Stay-at-Home, sweet Well-content, Thou knowest of no strange continent: Thou hast not felt thy bosom keep

It is the bell of death I hear, Which tells me my own time is near, When I must join those quiet souls

Here comes Kate Summers, who, for gold, Takes any man to bed: "You knew my friend, Nell Barnes," she said;

Man is a bird: He rises on fine wings Into the Heaven's clear light;

Thou that in fury with thy knotted tail Hast made this iron floor thy beaten drum; That now in silence walkst thy little space,

A dear old couple my grandparents were, And kind to all dumb things; they saw in Heaven The lamb that Jesus petted when a child;

The homeless man has heard thy voice, Its sound doth move his memory deep; He stares bewildered, as a man

I saw the fog grow thick, Which soon made blind my ken; It made tall men of boys,

Thou dost not fly, thou art not perched, The air is all around: What is it that can keep thee set,

One night when I went down Thames' side, in London Town, A heap of rags saw I,

Those poor, heartbroken wretches, doomed To hear at night the clocks' hard tones; They have no beds to warm their limbs,

It was the Rainbow gave thee birth, And left thee all her lovely hues; And, as her mother's name was Tears,

He lives his lonely life, and when he dies A thousand hearts maybe will utter sighs; Because they liked his songs, and now their bird

The mind, with its own eyes and ears, May for these others have no care; No matter where this body is,

Thy beauty haunts me heart and soul, Oh thou fair Moon, so close and bright; Thy beauty makes me like the child

I sit beneath your leaves, old oak, You mighty one of all the trees; Within whose hollow trunk a man

My little Lamb, what is amiss? If there was milk in mother's kiss, You would not look as white as this.

Since I have seen a bird one day, His head pecked more than half away; That hopped about, with but one eye,

Now how could I, with gold to spare, Who know the harlot's arms, and wine, Sit in this green field all alone,

While joy gave clouds the light of stars, That beamed where'er they looked; And calves and lambs had tottering knees,

What happy mortal sees that mountain now, The white cascade that's shining on its brow; The white cascade that's both a bird and star,

Come, if thou'rt cold to Summer's charms, Her clouds of green, her starry flowers, And let this bird, this wandering bird,

My mind has thunderstorms, That brood for heavy hours: Until they rain me words,

How many buds in this warm light Have burst out laughing into leaves! And shall a day like this be gone

When on a summer's morn I wake, And open my two eyes, Out to the clear, born-singing rills

In summer, when the Cuckoo sings, And clouds like greater moons can shine; When every leafy tree doth hold

When yon full moon's with her white fleet of stars, And but one bird makes music in the grove; When you and I are breathing side by side,

I do not know his grace the Duke, Outside whose gilded gate there died Of want a feeble, poor old man,

Is it not fine to walk in spring, When leaves are born, and hear birds sing? And when they lose their singing powers,

When at each door the ruffian winds Have laid a dying man to groan, And filled the air on winter nights