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.
But what kind hand will tend his grave, and bring Those blossoms there, of which he used to sing ? Who'll kiss his mound, and wish the time would come To lie with him inside that silent tomb ?
And who'll forget the dreamer's skill, and shed A tear because a loving heart is dead ? Heigh ho for gossip then, and common sighs — And let his death bring tears to no one's eyes.
Somehow this world is wonderful at times, As it has been from early morn in May ; Since first I heard the cock-a-doodle-do,
Timekeeper on green farms — at break of day.
Soon after that I heard ten thousand birds, Which made me think an angel brought a bin
Of golden grain, and none was scattered yet — To rouse those birds to make that merry din.
I could not sleep again, for such wild cries. And went out early into their green world ;
And then I saw what set their little tongues To scream for joy — they saw the East in gold.
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.
We went together side by side to school, Together had our holidays in fields Made golden by June's buttercups ; in woods, Where under ferns fresh pulled I buried her, And called her forth like Lazarus from the grave; She'd laughing come, to shake her curls until Methought to hear full half a hundred bells. A grown-up world took playful notice soon. Made me feel shame that grew a greater love; She was more chary of her laughter then, And more subdued her voice, as soft and sweet As Autumn's, blowing through his golden reeds. In her sweet sympathies she was a woman When scarcely she was more than child in years ; And yet one angry moment parted us. And days of longing never joined us more.
When April scatters coins 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 whose banks the violets make their home, And let a few small strawberry blossoms come :
When I go forth on such a pleasant day, One breath outdoors takes all my care away ; It goes like heavy smoke, when flames take hold Of wood that's green, and fills a grate with gold.
Alack for life! Worn to a stalk since yesterday Is the flower with whom the bee did stay, And he was but one night away. Alack for life, I say.
Alack for life! A flower put on her fine array, In hopes a bee would come her way, Who's dying in his hive this day. Alack for life, I say.
Alack for life! If Death like Love would throw his dart And pierce at once a double heart. And not to strike away one part — Alack for life, who'd say?
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; When, like a spring that rain has fed, My pity rises more and more. The flower that loves the warmth and light, Has all its mornings bathed in dew; My heart has moments wet with tears, My weakness is they are so few.
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're followed, watched and spied, No liberty they know; Some eye will watch them still, No matter where they go. When in green lanes I muse, Alone, and hear birds sing, God's pity then, say I, On some poor king.
W. H. Davies was a Welsh poet born in 1871 and died in 1940. He spent several years as a tramp in the United States and Britain, an experience he later recorded in "The Autobiography of a Super-Tramp". His poetry often focuses on the natural world, rural scenes, and the value of leisure and observation. The style is characterized by simple language and regular rhythms, avoiding modernist experimentation. Much of his work reflects a direct, unadorned response to everyday sights and sounds. Davies is associated with the Georgian poetry movement of the early twentieth century. One of his best-known poems is "Leisure", which questions the hurried pace of modern life. His collections include "The Soul's Destroyer" and "Songs of Joy". Davies's work has been noted for its accessible quality and its consistent celebration of ordinary experience.
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