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.

Leisure

A Bird's Anger

A Child's Pet

A Fleeting Passion

A Great Time

A Greeting

A May Morning

A Strange City

A Woman's Charms

An Early Love

Birds

Children At Play

Christmas

Cowslips And Larks

Days Too Short

Dream Tragedies

Dreams Of The Sea

Easter

England

Francis Thompson

Heigh Ho, The Rain

Hidden Love

In May

Joy Supreme

Laughing Rose

Life Is Jolly

Love And The Muse

Love's Caution

Love's Inspiration

Lovely Dames

Mad Poll

My Youth

Night Wanderers

Oh, Sweet Content!

On Hearing Mrs. Woodhouse Play The Harpsichord

Poor Kings

Raptures

Return To Nature

Seeking Joy

Smiles

Strong Moments

Sweet Birds, I Come

Sweet Stay-At-Home

The Bell

The Bird Of Paradise

The Bird-Man

The Captive Lion

The Child And The Mariner

The Church Organ

The Fog

The Hawk

The Heap Of Rags

The Helpless

The Kingfisher

The Lonely Dreamer

The Mind's Liberty

The Moon

The Old Oak Tree

The Starved

The Truth

The Two Lives

The Villain

The White Cascade

The Wonder Maker

Thunderstorms

Wasted Hours

When On A Summer's Morn

When The Cuckoo Sings

When Yon Full Moon

Who I Know

Winter's Beauty

Young Beauty

Christmas has come, let's eat and drink, 
This is no time to sit and think;
Farewell to study, books and pen,
And welcome to all kinds of men.
Let all men now get rid of care,
And what one has let others share;
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.
Now like a singing bird my feet
Touch earth, and I must drink and eat.
Welcome to all men: I'll not care
What any of my fellows wear;
We'll not let cloth divide our souls,
They'll swim stark naked in the bowls.
Welcome, poor beggar: I'll not see
That hand of yours dislodge a flea,, 
While you sit at my side and beg,
Or right foot scratching your left leg.
Farewell restraint: we will not now
Measure the ale our brains allow,
But drink as much as we can hold.
We'll count no change when we spend gold;
This is no time to save, but spend,
To give for nothing, not to lend.
Let foes make friends: let them forget
The mischief-making dead that fret
The living with complaint like this, 
"He wronged us once, hate him and his."
Christmas has come; let every man
Eat, drink, be merry all he can.
Ale's my best mark, but if port wine
Or whisky's yours, let it be mine;
No matter what lies in the bowls,
We'll make it rich with our own souls.
Farewell to study, books and pen,
And welcome to all kinds of men.

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
 Where Lesbia is, for whom the birds sing most.

What happy hearts those feathered mortals have,
 That sing so sweet when they're wet through in spring!
For in that month of May when leaves are young,
 Birds dream of song, and in their sleep they sing.

And when the spring has gone and they are dumb,
 Is it not fine to watch them at their play:
Is it not fine to see a bird that tries
 To stand upon the end of every spray?

See how they tilt their pretty heads aside:
 When women make that move they always please.
What cosy homes birds make in leafy walls
 That Nature's love has ruined - and the trees.

Oft have I seen in fields the little birds
 Go in between a bullock's legs to eat;
But what gives me most joy is when I see
 Snow on my doorstep, printed by their feet.

Joy, how I sought thee!
Silver I spent and gold,
On the pleasures of this world,
In splendid garments clad;
The wine I drank was sweet,
Rich morsels I did eat, 
Oh, but my life was sad!
Joy, how I sought thee!

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.
Joy, I have found thee!

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 vermilion 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.

I sit beneath your leaves, old oak,
 You mighty one of all the trees;
Within whose hollow trunk a man
 Could stable his big horse with ease.

I see your knuckles hard and strong,
 But have no fear they'll come to blows;
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.

Thou hast not felt the shivering backs
 Of homeless children lying down
And sleeping in the cold, night air, 
 Like doors and walls in London town.

Knowing thou hast not known such shame,
 And only storms have come thy way,
Methinks I could in comfort spend
 My summer with thee, day by day.

To lie by day in thy green shade,
 And in thy hollow rest at night;
And through the open doorway see
 The stars turn over leaves of light.

A summer's morning that has but one voice;
Five hundred stocks, like golden lovers, lean
Their heads together, in their quiet way,
And but one bird sings, of a number seen.

It is the lark, that louder, louder sings,
As though but this one thought possessed his mind:
'You silent robin, blackbird, thrush, and finch,
I'll sing enough for all you lazy kind!'

And when I hear him at this daring task,
'Peace, little bird,' I say, 'and take some rest;
Stop that wild, screaming fire of angry song,
Before it makes a coffin of your nest.'

Is it not fine to walk in spring,
When leaves are born, and hear birds sing?
And when they lose their singing powers,
In summer, watch the bees at flowers?
Is it not fine, when summer's past,
To have the leaves, no longer fast,
Biting my heel where'er I go,
Or dancing lightly on my toe?
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.
Then welcome, winter, with thy power
To make this tree a big white flower;
To make this tree a lovely sight,
With fifty brown arms draped in white,
While thousands of small fingers show
In soft white gloves of purest snow.

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.

The sky is clear,
 The sun is bright;
The cows are red,
 The sheep are white;
Trees in the meadows
Make happy shadows.

Birds in the hedge
 Are perched and sing;
Swallows and larks
 Are on the wing:
Two merry cuckoos
Are making echoes.

Bird and the beast
 Have the dew yet;
My road shines dry,
 Theirs bright and wet:
Death gives no warning,
On this May morning.

I see no Christ
 Nailed on a tree,
Dying for sin;
 No sin I see:
No thoughts for sadness,
All thoughts for gladness.

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,
 Thy salt is lodged forever in my blood.

Yet I have seen thee lash the vessel's sides
 In fury, with thy many tailed whip;
And I have seen thee, too, like Galilee,
 When Jesus walked in peace to Simon's ship

And I have seen thy gentle breeze as soft
 As summer's, when it makes the cornfields run;
And I have seen thy rude and lusty gale
 Make ships show half their bellies to the sun.

Thou knowest the way to tame the wildest life,
 Thou knowest the way to bend the great and proud:
I think of that Armada whose puffed sails,
 Greedy and large, came swallowing every cloud.

But I have seen the sea-boy, young and drowned,
 Lying on shore and by thy cruel hand,
A seaweed beard was on his tender chin,
 His heaven-blue eyes were filled with common sand.

And yet, for all, I yearn for thee again,
 To sail once more upon thy fickle flood:
I'll hear thy waves wash under my death-bed,
 Thy salt is lodged forever in my blood.

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 in no one's eyes.

William Henry Davies

Poems