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W. H. Davies
Now how could I, with gold to spare,
Who know the harlot's arms, and wine,
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.
So here sit I, alone till noon,
In one long dream of quiet bliss;
I hear the lark and share his joy,
With no more winedrops than were his.
Such, Nature, is thy charm and power--
Since I have made the Muse my wife--
To keep me from the harlot's arms,
And save me from a drunkard's life.
Serpents in waste places
feed on larks, they say.
Fiddlers go up
and down the fields
in my mind. How to put
things to order in
this prison for ill words?
I shall scour it.
in the customs of larks
joy is all the rage
they pierce the heart
afire with a news in which
I hardly believe
the body of a model
is a safe croft
but the best place could endure
every ordinary survey
and so a dish of larks
after the wasteland
The lark is mad,
dishabille in a disco—
a fine lad, to court
in his ash coat.
I paid to free from a dinner dish
two dozen larks, a great company,
and all were merry.
They drank a bottle of wine, fell down,
and ate from my hand.
I have remembered beauty in the night,
Against black silences I waked to see
A shower of sunlight over Italy
And green Ravello dreaming on her height;
I have remembered music in the dark,
The clean swift brightness of a fugue of Bach's,
And running water singing on the rocks
When once in English woods I heard a lark.
But all remembered beauty is no more
Than a vague prelude to the thought of you--
You are the rarest soul I ever knew,
Lover of beauty, knightliest and best;
My thoughts seek you as waves that seek the shore,
And when I think of you, I am at rest.
Over the downs there were birds flying,
Far off glittered the sea,
And toward the north the weald of Sussex
Lay like a kingdom under me.
I was happier than the larks
That nest on the downs and sing to the sky,
Over the downs the birds flying
Were not so happy as I.
It was not you, though you were near,
Though you were good to hear and see,
It was not earth, it was not heaven
It was myself that sang in me.
Cold against the sky
The blue jays cried at dawning.
The larks where are they?
Heavily upon the air
My ears tuned in to listen.
My arms are round you, and I lean
Against you, while the lark
Sings over us, and golden lights, and green
Shadows are on your bark.
There’ll come a season when you’ll stretch
Black boards to cover me:
Then in Mount Jerome I will lie, poor wretch,
With worms eternally.
Her eyes? Dark pools of deepest shade,
Like sylvan lakes that lie
In some sequestered forest glade
Beneath a starry sky.
Her cheeks? The ripened chestnut’s hue,--
Rich autumn’s sun-kissed brown!
Caressed by sunbeams dancing through
Red leaves that flutter down.
Her form? A slender pine that sways
Before the murmuring breeze
In summer, when the south wind plays
Soft music through the trees.
Herself? A laughing, joyous sprite
Who smiles from dawn till dark,
As lovely as a summer night
And carefree as a lark.
Nothing but sweet music wakes
My Beloved, my Beloved.
Sleeping by the blue lakes,
My own Beloved!
Song of lark and song of thrush,
My Beloved! my Beloved!
Sing in morning's rosy bush,
My own Beloved!
When your eyes dawn blue and clear,
My Beloved! my Beloved!
You will find me waiting here,
My own Beloved!