Let not the wayside dells go unregarded;
Why ever longing for the hills or sea?
Who loves earth’s modest gifts is well rewarded,
And hears the wood-thrush sing as cheerily
As when by mountain brooks it trills its lay,
To soothe the dying moments of the day.
Here, where no busy toilers ever rest,
Where but the wayside weeds reach from the sod,
I love to be the merry cricket’s guest,
And find, though all is mean, no soulless clod;