Thursday, April 1, 2010

William Henry Davies (1871- 1940)

William H. Davies - Welsh poet and Writer

Excerpts from 'Songs of Joy and Others'

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 day light,
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.

Fancy's Home
Tell me, Fancy, sweetest child,

Of thy parents, of thy birth;
Had they silk, and had they gold,
And a park to wander forth,
With a castle green and old?

In a cottage I was born,
My kind father was Content,
My dear mother Innocence;
On wild fruits of Wonderment,
I have nourished ever since.

In the Wood
I lie on Joy's enchanted ground:
No other noise but these green trees
That sigh and cling to every breeze;
And that deep solemn, hollow sound
Born of the graves, and made by Bees.

Now, do I think of this packed world,
Where thousands of rich people sweat,
Like common slaves, in idle fret;
Not knowing how to buy with gold
This house of Joy, that makes no debt.

What little wealth true Joy doth need!
I pay for wants that make no show;
I pay my way and nothing owe
I drink my ale, I smoke my weed,
And take my time where'er I go.

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.