A Greeting

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;

Hail to you birds whose throats

Would number leaves by notes;

Hail to you shady bowers,

And you green field of flowers.

Hail to you women fair,

That make a show so rare

In cloth as white as milk--

Be't calico or silk:

Good morning, Life--and all

Things glad and beautiful.

W.H. Davies

Days Too Short

WHEN primroses are out in Spring,

And small, blue violets come between;

When merry birds sing on boughs green,

And rills, as soon as born, must sing;

When butterflies will make side-leaps,

As though escaped from Nature's hand

Ere perfect quite; and bees will stand

Upon their heads in fragrant deeps;

When small clouds are so silvery white

Each seems a broken rimmed moon--

When such things are, this world too soon,

For me, doth wear the veil of night.

W.H. Davies

Leisure

WHAT is this life if, full of care,

We have no time to stand and stare.

No time to stand beneath the boughs

And stare as long as sheep or cows.

No time to see, when woods we pass,

Where squirrels hide their nuts in grass.

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.

No time to wait till her mouth can

Enrich that smile her eyes began.

A poor life this if, full of care,

We have no time to stand and stare.

W.H. Davies

Joy and Pleasure

NOW, joy is born of parents poor,

And pleasure of our richer kind;

Though pleasure's free, she cannot sing

As sweet a song as joy confined.

Pleasure's a Moth, that sleeps by day

And dances by false glare at night;

But Joy's a Butterfly, that loves

To spread its wings in Nature's light.

Joy's like a Bee that gently sucks

Away on blossoms its sweet hour;

But pleasure's like a greedy Wasp,

That plums and cherries would devour.

Joy's like a Lark that lives alone,

Whose ties are very strong, though few;

But Pleasure like a Cuckoo roams,

Makes much acquaintance, no friends true.

Joy from her heart doth sing at home,

With little care if others hear;

But pleasure then is cold and dumb,

And sings and laughs with strangers near.

W.H. Davies

Truly Great

MY walls outside must have some flowers,

My walls within must have some books;

A house that's small; a garden large,

And in it leafy nooks.

A little gold that's sure each week;

That comes not from my living kind,

But from a dead man in his grave,

Who cannot change his mind.

A lovely wife, and gentle too;

Contented that no eyes but mine

Can see her many charms, nor voice

To call her beauty fine.

Where she would in that stone cage live,

A self-made prisoner, with me;

While many a wild bird sang around,

On gate, on bush, on tree.

And she sometimes to answer them,

In her far sweeter voice than all;

Till birds, that loved to look on leaves,

Will doat on a stone wall.

With this small house, this garden large,

This little gold, this lovely mate,

With health in body, peace in heart--

Show me a man more great.

W.H. Davies

Money

WHEN I had money, money, O!

I knew no joy till I went poor;

For many a false man as a friend

Came knocking at my door.

Then felt I like a child that holds

A trumpet that he must not blow

Because a man is dead; I dared

Not speak to let this false world know.

Much have I thought of life, and seen

How poor men's hearts are ever light;

And how their wives do hum like bees

About their work from morn till night.

So, when I hear these poor ones laugh,

And see the rich ones coldly frown--

Poor men, think I, need not go up

So much as rich men should come down.

When I had money, money, O!

My many friends proved all untrue;

But now I have no money, O!

My friends are real though very few.

W.H. Davies

All in June

A WEEK ago I had a fire

To warm my feet, my hands and face;

Cold winds, that never make a friend,

Crept in and out of every place.

Today the fields are rich in grass,

And buttercups in thousands grow;

I'll show the world where I have been--

With gold-dust seen on either shoe.

Till to my garden back I come,

Where bumble-bees for hours and hours

Sit on their soft, fat, velvet bums,

To wriggle out of hollow flowers.

W.H. Davies

The Example

HERE'S an example from

A Butterfly;

That on a rough, hard rock

Happy can lie;

Friendless and all alone

On this unsweetened stone.

Now let my bed be hard

No care take I;

I'll make my joy like this

Small Butterfly;

Whose happy heart has power

To make a stone a flower.

W.H. Davies

The Kingfisher

IT was the Rainbow gave thee birth,

And left thee all her lovely hues;

And, as her mother's name was Tears,

So runs it in my blood to choose

For haunts the lonely pools, and keep

In company with trees that weep.

Go you and, with such glorious hues,

Live with proud peacocks in green parks;

On lawns as smooth as shining glass,

Let every feather show its marks;

Get thee on boughs and clap thy wings

Before the windows of proud kings.

Nay, lovely Bird, thou art not vain;

Thou hast no proud, ambitious mind;

I also love a quiet place

That's green, away from all mankind;

A lonely pool, and let a tree

Sigh with her bosom over me.

W.H. Davies

Come, Let Us Find

COME, let us find a cottage, love,

That's green for half a mile around;

To laugh at every grumbling bee,

Whose sweetest blossom's not yet found.

Where many a bird shall sing for you,

And in your garden build its nest:

They'll sing for you as though their eggs

Were lying in your breast,

       My love--

Were lying warm in your soft breast.

'Tis strange how men find time to hate,

When life is all too short for love;

But we, away from our own kind,

A different life can live and prove.

And early on a summer's morn,

As I go walking out with you,

We'll help the sun with our warm breath

To clear away the dew,

       My love,

To clear away the morning dew.

W.H. Davies

The Villain

WHILE joy gave clouds the light of stars,

That beamed wher'er they looked;

And calves and lambs had tottering knees,

Excited, while they sucked;

While every bird enjoyed his song,

Without one thought of harm or wrong--

I turned my head and saw the wind,

Not far from where I stood,

Dragging the corn by her golden hair,

Into a dark and lonely wood.

W.H. Davies

Thunderstorms

MY mind has thunderstorms,

That brood for heavy hours:

Until they rain me words;

My thoughts are drooping flowers

And sulking, silent birds.

Yet come, dark thunderstorms,

And brood your heavy hours;

For when you rain me words,

My thoughts are dancing flowers

And joyful singing birds.

W.H. Davies

Songs of Joy

SING out, my soul, thy songs of joy;

Sing as a happy bird will sing

Beneath a rainbow's lovely arch

In the spring.

Think not of death in thy young days;

Why shouldst thou that grim tyrant fear?

And fear him not when thou art old,

And he is near.

Strive not for gold, for greedy fools

Measure themselves by poor men never;

Their standard still being richer men,

Makes them poor ever.

Train up thy mind to feel content,

What matters then how low thy store?

What we enjoy, and not possess,

Makes rich or poor.

Filled with sweet thought, then happy I

Take not my state from other's eyes;

What's in my mind -- not on my flesh

Or theirs -- I prize.

Sing, happy soul, thy songs of joy;

Such as a Brook sings in the wood,

That all night has been strengthened by

Heaven's purer flood.

W.H. Davies

The Rain

I HEAR leaves drinking rain;

I hear rich leaves on top

Giving the poor beneath

Drop after drop;

'Tis a sweet noise to hear

These green leaves drinking near.

And when the Sun comes out,

After this Rain shall stop,

A wondrous Light will fill

Each dark, round drop;

I hope the Sun shines bright;

'Twill be a lovely sight.

W.H. Davies

Laughing Rose

IF I were gusty April now,

How I would blow at laughing Rose;

I'd make her ribbons slip their knots,

And all her hair come loose.

If I were merry April now,

How I would pelt her cheeks with showers;

I'd make carnations, rich and warm,

Of her vermillion flowers.

Since she will laugh in April's face

No matter how he rains or blows --

Then O that I wild April were,

To play with laughing Rose.

W.H. Davies

The Sleepers

AS I walked down the waterside

This silent morning, wet and dark;

Before the cocks in farmyards crowed,

Before the dogs began to bark;

Before the hour of five was struck

By old Westminster's mighty clock:

As I walked down the waterside

This morning, in the cold damp air,

I was a hundred women and men

Huddled in rags and sleeping there:

These people have no work, thought I,

And long before their time they die.

That moment, on the waterside,

A lighted car came at a bound;

I looked inside, and saw a score

Of pale and weary men that frowned;

Each man sat in a huddled heap,

Carried to work while fast asleep.

Ten cars rushed down the waterside

Like lighted coffins in the dark;

With twenty dead men in each car,

That must be brought alive by work:

These people work too hard, thought I,

And long before their time they die.

W.H. Davies

Charms

SHE walks as lightly as the fly

Skates on the water in July.

To hear her moving petticoat

For me is music's highest note.

Stones are not heard, when her feet pass,

No more than tumps of moss or grass.

When she sits still, she's like the flower

To be a butterfly next hour.

The brook laughs not more sweet, when he

Trips over pebbles suddenly.

My Love, like him, can whisper low --

When he comes where green cresses grow.

She rises like the lark, that hour

He goes halfway to meet a shower.

A fresher drink is in her looks

Than Nature gives me, or old books.

When I in my Love's shadow sit,

I do not miss the sun one bit.

When she is near, my arms can hold

All that's worth having in this world.

And when I know not where she is,

Nothing can come but comes amiss.

W.H. Davies

The Happy Child

I SAW this day sweet flowers grow thick --

But not one like the child did pick.

I heard the packhounds in green park --

But no dog like the child heard bark.

I heard this day bird after bird --

But not one like the child has heard.

A hundred butterflies saw I --

But not one like the child saw fly.

I saw the horses roll in grass --

But no horse like the child saw pass.

My world this day has lovely been --

But not like what the child has seen.

W.H. Davies

Nell Barnes

THEY lived apart for three long years,

Bill Barnes and Nell his wife;

He took his joy from other girls,

She led a wicked life.

Yet ofttimes she would pass his shop,

With some strange man awhile;

And, looking, meet her husband's frown

With her malicious smile.

Until one day, when passing there,

She saw her man had gone;

And when she saw the empty shop,

She fell down with a moan.

And when she heard that he had gone

Five thousand miles away;

And that she's see his face no more,

She sickened from that day.

To see his face was health and life,

And when it was denied,

She could not eat, and broke her heart --

It was for love she died.

W.H. Davies

The Boy

GO, little boy,

Fill thee with joy;

For Time gives thee

Unlicensed hours,

To run in fields,

And roll in flowers.

A little boy

Can life enjoy;

If but to see

The horses pass,

When shut indoors

Behind the glass.

Go, little boy,

Fill thee with joy;

Fear not, like man,

The kick of wrath,

That you do lie

In some one's path.

Time is to thee

Eternity,

As to a bird

Or butterfly;

And in that faith

True joy doth lie.

W.H. Davies

The Dark Hour

AND now, when merry winds do blow,

And rain makes trees look fresh,

An overpowering staleness holds

This mortal flesh.

Though well I love to feel the rain,

And be by winds well blown --

The mystery of mortal life

Doth press me down.

And, In this mood, come now what will,

Shine Rainbow, Cuckoo call;

There is no thing in Heaven or Earth

Can lift my soul.

I know not where this state comes from --

No cause for grief I know;

The Earth around is fresh and green,

Flowers near me grow.

I sit between two fair rose trees;

Red roses on my right,

And on my left side roses are

A lovely white.

The little birds are full of joy,

Lambs bleating all the day;

The colt runs after the old mare,

And children play.

And still there comes this dark, dark hour --

Which is not borne of Care;

Into my heart it creeps before

I am aware.

W.H. Davies

Sadness and Joy

I PRAY you, Sadness, leave me soon,

In sweet invention thou art poor!

Thy sister, Joy can make ten songs

While thou art making four.

One hour with thee is sweet enough;

But when we find the whole day gone

And no created thing is left --

We mourn the evil done.

Thou art too slow to shape thy thoughts

In stone, on canvas, or in song;

But Joy, being full of active heat,

Must do some deed ere long.

Thy sighs are gentle, sweet thy tears;

But if thou canst not help a man

To prove in substance what he feels --

Then givve me Joy, who can.

Therefore sweet Sadness, leave me soon,

Let thy bright sister, Joy, come more;

For she can make ten lovely songs

While thou art making four.

W.H. Davies

The Heap of Rags

ONE night when I went down

Thames' side, in London Town,

A heap of rags saw I,

And sat me down close by.

That thing could shout and bawl,

But showed no face at all;

When any steamer passed

And blew a loud shrill blast,

That heap of rags would sit

And make a sound like it;

When struck the clock's deep bell,

It made those peals as well.

When winds did moan around,

It mocked them with that sound;

When all was quiet, it

Fell into a strange fit;

Would sigh, and moan, and roar,

It laughed, and blessed, and swore.

Yet that poor thing, I know,

Had neither friend nor foe;

Its blessin or its curse

Made no one better or worse.

I left it in that place --

The thing that showed no face,

Was it a man that had

Suffered till he went mad?

So many showers and not

One rainbow in the lot?

Too many bitter fears

To make a pearl from tears?

W.H. Davies

The Hawk

THOU dost not fly, thou art not perched,

The air is all around:

What is it that can keep thee set,

From falling to the ground?

The concentration of thy mind

Supports thee in the air;

As thou dost watch the small young birds,

With such a deadly care.

My mind has such a hawk as thou,

It is an evil mood;

It comes when there's no cause for grief,

And on my joys doth brood.

Then do I see my life in parts;

The earth receives my bones,

The common air absorbs my mind --

It knows not flowers from stones.

W.H. Davies