AN IDLE HOLIDAY.
When the days are bright and hot,
In the month of August,
When the sunny hours are not
Marred by any raw gust,
Then I turn from toil with glee,
Sing a careless canto,
And to somewhere by the sea
Carry my portmanteau.
Shall I, dreaming on the sand,
Pleased with all things finite,
Envy Jones who travels and
Climbs an Apennine height—
Climbs a rugged peak with pain,
Literally speaking,
Only to descend again
Fagged with pleasure-seeking?
Smith, who, worn with labour, went
Off for rest and leisure,
Races round the Continent
In pursuit of pleasure:
Having lunched at Bâle, he will
At Lucerne his tea take,
Riding till he's faint and ill,
Tramping till his feet ache.
Shall I, dreaming thus at home,
Left ashore behind here,
Envy restless men who roam
Seeking what I find here?
Since beside my native sea,
Where I sit to woo it,
Pleasure always comes to me,
Why should I pursue it?
