Fragrant upon his shoulders bent,
The hill-flowers darkening where they trode;
“Reddest and best; but not for us;
Some loafing lout will see it fall;
The laborer’s prize—’twas ever thus—
Is his who never works at all!”
Soon came a vagrant, loitering,
His young face browned by wind and sun,
Weary, yet blithe and prone to sing,
Tramping his way to Avalon;