William Henry Davies

“ Joy, I have found thee!
Far from the halls of Mirth,
Back to the soft green earth,
⁠Where people are not many;
I find thee, Joy, in hours
With clouds, and birds, and flowers—
⁠Thou dost not charge one penny. ”

“ Storing, methought, more bitter stuff than sweet.
The air was foul and stale; from their green homes
Young blood had brought its fresh and rosy cheeks,
Which soon turned colour, like blue streams in flood.
Aye, solitude, black solitude indeed,
To meet a million souls and know not one;
This world must soon grow stale to one compelled
To look all day at faces strange and cold. ”

“ The stars in ambush lie all day,
⁠To take her glances for the night.
Her voice can shame rain-pelted leaves;
⁠Young robin has no notes as sweet
In autumn, when the air is still,
⁠And all the other birds are mute. ”

“ Good morning, Life—and all
Things glad and beautiful.
My pockets nothing hold,
But he that owns the gold,
The Sun, is my great friend—
His spending has no end.
Hail to the morning sky,
Which bright clouds measure high ”

“ Ah, children, what a life to lead:
⁠You love the flowers, but when they're past
No flowers are missed by your bright eyes;
⁠And when cold winter comes at last,
Snowflakes shall be your butterflies. ”

“ And suckle my sweet dreams, that tug my heart,
⁠And whimper to be nourished every hour.
Give me that answer now, and then my Muse,
⁠That for my sweet life's sake must never die,
Will rise like that great wave that leaps and hangs
⁠The sea-weed on a vessel's mast-top high. ”

“ I look, though it should cost my life.
When I can hear that charmed one's voice,
⁠I taste of immortality;
My joy's so great that on my heart
⁠Doth lie eternity,
As light as any little flower—
⁠So strong a wonder works in me ”

“ Sit in this green field all alone,
⁠If Nature was not truly mine?
That Pleasure life wakes stale at morn,
⁠From heavy sleep that no rest brings:
This life of quiet joy wakes fresh,
⁠And claps its wings at morn, and sings. ”

“ LIFE IS JOLLY
This life is jolly, O!
⁠I envy no man's lot;
My eyes can much admire,
⁠And still my heart crave not;
There's no true joy in gold,
⁠It breeds desire for more;
Whatever wealth man has,
⁠Desire can keep him poor. ”

“ THE LONELY DREAMER
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
Sleeps with his head beneath his wing, unheard. ”

“ I made my fingers rings of gold,
⁠And bangles for my wrist;
You should have felt the soft, warm thing
⁠I made to glove my fist.
And she should have a crown, I swore,
⁠With only gold enough
To keep together stones more rich
⁠Than that fine metal stuff. ”

“ I see a maiden now,
⁠Fair as a summer's day;
Yet through her parted lips
⁠I see the milky way;
It makes the broad daylight
⁠In summer time look black:
Her two lips close again,
⁠And night comes back. ”

“ The wolf of Hunger, it is he
That takes away thy milk from me,
And I have much to do for thee.
If thou couldst live on love, I know
No babe in all the land could show
More rosy cheeks and louder crow. ”

“ Thou art not always kind, O sleep:
What awful secrets them dost keep
In store, and ofttimes make us know;
What hero has not fallen low
In sleep before a monster grim,
And whined for mercy unto him ”

“ God's pity on poor kings,
⁠They know no gentle rest;
The North and South cry out,
⁠Cries come from East and West—
"Come, open this new Dock,
⁠Building, Bazaar or Fair."
Lord, what a wretched life
⁠Such men must bear. ”

“ They hear the bell of midnight toll,
And shiver in their flesh and soul;
They lie on hard, cold wood or stone,
Iron, and ache in every bone;
They hate the night: they see no eyes
Of loved ones in the starlit skies. ”

“ Oft didst thou think thy mind would flower
⁠Too late for good, as some bruised tree
⁠That blooms in Autumn, and we see
Fruit not worth picking, hard and sour.
Some poets feign their wounds and scars. ”

“ What is this life if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare. ”

“ Now winter's here and rivers freeze;
As I walk out I see the trees,
Wherein the pretty squirrels sleep,
All standing in the snow so deep:
And every twig, however small,
Is blossomed white and beautiful. ”

“ Love soon will seem to be half out;
Like blighted leaves drooped to the ground,
Whose roots are still untouched and sound,
So will our love's root still be strong
When others think the leaves go wrong. ”

“ Sweet Stay-at-Home, sweet Well-content,
Thou knowest of no strange continent:
Thou hast not felt thy bosom keep
A gentle motion with the deep;
Thou hast not sailed in Indian seas,
Where scent comes forth in every breeze. ”

“ Or silver fox, for me can keep
No more to praise than common sheep.
Though ten Isaiahs' souls were mine,
They could not sing such charms as thine.
Two little hands that show with pride,
Two timid, little feet that hide ”

“ Into the Heaven's clear light;
⁠He flies away and sings—
There's music in his flight.
Man is a bird:
⁠In swiftest speed he burns,
With twist and dive and leap;
⁠A bird whose sudden turns
Can drive the frightened sheep. ”

“ For I have heard the sighs and whines
Of rich men that drink costly wines
And eat the best of fish and fowl;
Men that have plenty, and still growl
Because they cannot like kings live—
"Alas!" they whine, "we cannot save." ”

“ And, if the Owl appears, he's forced
⁠By small birds to some hiding-place:
Then, like red Robin in the spring,
⁠I shun those haunts where men are found;
My house holds little joy until
⁠Leaves fall and birds can make no sound ”

“ Has men too poor and men too rich;
Where some are sick, too richly fed,
While others take the sparrows' bread:
Where some have beds to warm their bones,
While others sleep on hard, cold stones
That suck away their bodies' heat.
Where men are drunk in every street ”

“ Your life is long, and mine is short,
⁠But which has known the greater woes?
Thou has not seen starved women here,
⁠Or man gone mad because ill-fed—
Who stares at stones in city streets,
⁠Mistaking them for hunks of bread. ”

“ No time to see, in broad daylight,
Streams full of stars, like skies at night.
No time to turn at Beauty’s glance,
And watch her feet, how they can dance. ”

“ But well I know the mother poor,
⁠Three pounds of flesh wrapped in her shawl:
A puny babe that, stripped at home,
⁠Looks like a rabbit skinned, so small.
And well I know the homeless waif,
⁠Fed by the poorest of the poor ”

“ A man passed by me close,
⁠I asked my way, he said,
"Come, follow me, my friend"—
⁠I followed where he led.
He rapped the stones in front,
⁠"Trust me," he said, "and come";
I followed like a child—
⁠A blind man led me home. ”

“ There goes mad Poll, dressed in wild flowers,
⁠Poor, crazy Poll, now old and wan;
Her hair all down, like any child:
⁠She swings her two arms like a man.
Poor, crazy Poll is never sad,
⁠She never misses one that dies ”

“ Sometimes I hear fine ladies sing,
⁠Sometimes I smoke and drink with men;
Sometimes I play at games of cards—
⁠Judge me to be no strong man then.
The strongest moment of my life
⁠Is when I think about the poor ”

“ I saw white towers where so-called traitors died—
True men whose tongues were bells to honest hearts,
And rang out boldly in false monarch's ears.
Saw old black gateways, on whose arches crouched
Stone lions with their bodies gnawed by age. ”

“ Then 'tis the same, no matter which
Of us is poor, or which is rich.
Let each man have enough this day,
Since those that can are glad to pay;
There's nothing now too rich or good
For poor men, not the King's own food. ”

“ She, active, strong, and full of breath,
Has caught the cat that stole an eel,
And beaten it to death.
This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was published before January 1, 1928.
The longest-living author of this work died in 1940, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 82 years or less. This work may be in the public domain in countries and areas with longer native copyright terms that apply the rule of the shorter term to foreign works. ”

“ In solemn courtyards, midst the men-at-arms;
Which suddenly would leap those stony walls
And spring up with loud laughter into trees.
I walked in busy streets where music oft
Went on the march with men; and ofttimes heard
The organ in cathedral, when the boys
Like nightingales sang in that thunderstorm;
The organ, with its rich and solemn tones—
As near a God's voice as a man conceives;
Nor ever dreamt the silent misery
That solemn organ brought to homeless men. ”

“ So that their watery breasts can give
Their babies milk and make them live.
Where one man does the work of four,
And dies worn out before his hour;
While some seek work in vain, and grief
Doth make their fretful lives as brief. ”