These poems date back to 1839
Al Fresco
The dandelions and buttercups
Gild all the lawns the drowsy bee
Stumbles among the clover-tops,
And summer sweetens all but me:
Away, unfruitful lore of books,
For whose vain idiom we reject
The soul's more native dialect,
Aliens among the birds and brooks,
Dull to interpret or conceive
What gospels lost words the woods retrieve,
Away, ye critics, city bread
Who set man-traps of thus and so,
And in the first man's footsteps tread,
Like those who toil through the drifted snow.
Away, my poets, whose sweet spell
Can make a garden of a cell,
I need ye not, for I to-day
Will make one long sweet verse of play.
No comments:
Post a Comment