For the sun’s bright, and the moon’s bright, and all the women’s eyes
Are bright there; and joy’s there, and love that fools despise.
It’s a little dusty village, full of laughing men and girls;
At the thought of it my breath comes short, my tired brain spins and whirls.
I must tramp along and find it, choose my sunny white-washed wall,
And sing my songs, and dream my dreams, and never work at all.
There are vines there, and wines there, and straight, long dazzling ways
That shine white, on a fine night, when high the full moon sways.
1910.